by Gates, J.
“You know the rest,” he says. “After what happened in the village, I knew I had to fight the Company. I stopped chasing money and started chasing God. I joined this holy fight. I won’t even tell you what it was like for me and Michel, smuggling ourselves into America Division. It was hard. But I wanted to cut off the head of the dragon.”
“Where is your wife now?” I ask warily. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Oh, no. At least, I pray she isn’t. I pray she has all the perfumes and chocolates and pearls she could want.” He pauses. “She still works for the Company. She’s a manager in Africa Division.”
He pauses, then goes on: “Me and Michel, we’ll slay the dragon for her. We’ll give her that, instead of diamonds. You can’t take diamonds into heaven, but good deeds will follow you everywhere. He misses her very much.”
His sparkling eyes go watery for a second. I begin to ask him another question—it seems like there are so many questions I need to ask—then stop. Instead, I take out my ceramic and pretend to check it over like the others are checking theirs, though I hardly know what to look for. Next to me, McCann presses a button on the stereo and a new track of music comes on. Driving percussion and distant-sounding guitar fills the truck.
“This is what we like to sing before battle,” McCann says, then begins to sing words overtop the drums. He starts with a whisper, but soon his voice has grown to a full-throated call.
O say can you see,
By the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed
At the twilight’s last gleaming?
One by one, the others join in.
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, Through the perilous fight
O’er the ramparts we watched
Were so gallantly streaming . . .
Their voices rise together as strong and as powerful as any sound I’ve ever heard. Their song drowns out all other noise, even the simpering whispers of fear in my own gut, and soon I’m fortified, electrified, and ready to fight, to conquer or die. A tear comes into my eye as the song ends. Everyone sits solemnly, ready for action.
Against the silence of my companions and the rumble of the truck’s engine I whisper, “I’ve never heard that song before. It’s beautiful.”
~~~
“We’re close,” McCann says. “Prepare yourselves.”
The sporadic, nervous conversations and jokes of the previous hour dissipate, replaced by a taut silence. Around me, the brows of my comrades have lowered, their jaws have set. One woman in the back produces a tube full of the dark, inky makeup and begins painting a cross over the scar on the cheek of the rebel next to her. When the process has been repeated on everyone’s cheek and a layer of powder is applied, the crosses look remarkably like real implants. Next, the woman reaches behind the rear seat and produces a security-squad uniform for everyone in the car—everyone except me. As I look around, confused, I notice that on the far side of McCann’s cheek, the side that had been hidden from me, a cross has already been painted as well. In the back, my comrades wriggle into their uniforms.
Nobody offers to paint a cross on me.
McCann catches the look of concern on my face. “Alright, May,” he says. “It’s time for you to learn the plan. You are lucky to have a place of special honor in it.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. In my experience, whenever somebody tells you you’re lucky, it’s always the kiss of death.
“Now listen close,” he says. “You will be our ticket into the perimeter of the prison. You’re going to be our prisoner. You will be handcuffed, and when we arrive, the squadmen will take you from our custody. Ethan will go in with you, and once the two of you are inside, he will set you free. When that happens, an alarm will sound and the entire facility will go into lockdown mode, which means all doors in the prison will automatically close and lock until the emergency is over. You and Ethan will then be sealed inside, but more importantly, each quadrant of the prison will be sealed off from the others; all the guards will be stuck in the quadrant of the prison they’re in when the alarm sounds. This will cut by one-quarter the number of armed guards we’ll have to deal with at any given time. The doors will remain sealed until the alarm has stopped, and by then, God willing, we’ll have freed Clair and the others, and will be on the road with them already. For your part, you’ll simply have to play the prisoner, keep silent, and fight like a lion when the time comes. Remember, until we can break in to join you, you and Ethan will have to hold off all the squadmen in the quadrant by yourselves. One advantage you will have is that the electronic defenses inside the prison should be neutralized. Even so, it will not be easy. This is your chance to back out of the role you’ve been assigned, if you choose. Somebody else could go in your place, although Ethan feels you’d be best for the job.”
McCann looks over at me, studying me slyly, probing for hesitation, for any sign of weakness. I draw a deep breath to steady my voice before I say: “How many squadmen in the quadrant?”
“A hundred and fifty, by our best estimates.”
A moment passes as the enormity of the situation dawns on me. This is my first battle and it’s going to be me and Ethan, alone, against a hundred and fifty squadmen. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“Okay,” I say finally, “But I’m going to need another clip.”
McCann grins.
As I go over his words again, my mind roils with questions. The plan seems riddled with holes and pitfalls too numerous to contemplate. Even if we—who only number twenty-six—are able to defeat one hundred and fifty fully trained and equipped squadmen, what if the electronic defenses aren’t neutralized, as they are expected to be? We would be decimated by the auto-defense systems. And what if the prisoners have been moved to another quadrant, or if they attempt to take me to a different quadrant than the one Clair is in? Then we’ll have to break into that second quadrant, releasing another one hundred and fifty squadmen, bringing the number of adversaries to a completely insurmountable three hundred. Most obviously, what if Ethan and I can’t hold off the guards long enough for reinforcements to break through and help us?
I am no fool. I see our odds clearly enough. But for some reason, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that I’m going to go anyway. It strikes me that this is a new kind of faith, one deeper than the brand that the Company peddles, and I bow my head in prayer. Unbidden, Jimmy Shaw’s heretical words march through my mind: I believe God-fearing workers work harder.
Maybe his confession should have strangled the faith within me, but somehow, as I finish my prayer and gaze at the brambles and scraggly pines out the car window, I feel God near me more clearly that I ever have. The immediacy of the feeling strikes me almost hard enough to bring tears into my eyes.
Who would have imagined, as I step into the world of everything forbidden by the Company church that I would find God there waiting for me? Not the God of old, dusty books or tired, threadbare admonishments, but the living God, the one that dwells in adrenaline and breath, in the present, inside me, not in some far-off cloud city but in the electric blue of the sky hanging above.
I will go. And I will set Clair free.
Though trembling, I am calm. There’s no doubt I will fight like hell. I do not fear that I will crack under the pressure of gunfire. For the first time in my life, I do not even fear death, perhaps because it no longer stalks in the shadows but stands clearly before me, expectant, inexorable.
Half a mile later, a small guardhouse comes into view. McCann murmurs a few orders—which I hardly hear, as wrapped up in my thoughts as I am—and I am shuffled to the backseat. One of the men back there, a strapping fellow with big, brown doe’s eyes, whispers an apology as he squeezes the shackles tight against my wrists and takes my gun from my hand. I do not grimace or utter any response. I simply wait for what comes.
In front of us
, Ethan’s vehicle halts before the guard gate. He leans out, says a few sharp words and gestures toward the prison impatiently. The guard, who even from here looks very young, very slow-witted, and utterly confused, gives a conciliatory shrug and speaks into his IC, presumably calling some higher-up inside the prison. Finally, after a few tense moments, the gate swings open and we roll through, following Ethan’s lead.
We pass down a long, asphalt driveway, on either side of which an expanse of parched lawn stretches almost to the horizon. Soon, we reach another checkpoint. This one consists of a steel gate set between two concrete guard towers that rise from the bare plain like a couple of gigantic fangs. From each of the guard towers, a wall of razor wire makes a wide arc around the perimeter of the prison, which itself is an unremarkable-looking edifice of water-stained concrete and scant, black windows.
We are stopped at this gate, too, and as I glance over at McCann, I see sweat beading up on his brow. Ethan explains something to another guard, and after another brief delay, this gate, too, opens. As we roll past the guardhouse, I hear the computer inside reciting a list of names: Nancy Hernandez, squadmember third class, John Bell, squad captain, Will Pence squad member fourth class.
As they scan us, my fingers snake into my pocket and touch the tiny encoder chip there, just like the one Ethan and I used to fool the cross-reader at the work camp. The implant ID system is supposed to be infallible. Fortunately for us, it’s not. And I suddenly wonder how Ethan and his team were able to figure out a way around it.
“How—” I begin.
“Shut up, prisoner,” says the man who’d handcuffed me. His voice is sharp as flint, but when his brown eyes meet mine, I see they’re filled with sympathy, even apology. He points to one ear, and I understand: they could be listening.
Now we’ve entered the open square in front of the prison. Some of the rebels in the car with me exchange glances, and I can feel us collectively holding our breaths. The vehicles pull around a large, circular driveway and stop. To my right rises the citadel of the prison. Set in the wall directly before us stands what looks like a thick, steel garage door.
Before I can think, almost before we’ve completely stopped, my friendly captor leans over me, opens the door, and shoves me out onto the pavement. The breath is almost knocked out of me as I land hard on one shoulder.
“Up.”
It’s Ethan, standing above me, yanking me to my feet. At the same time, it’s not Ethan at all. The familiar charm, the humor, the quiet, good-natured power, all have drained from him. Everything about him is completely different now, his voice, his mannerisms, even his facial expressions. The transformation is creepy, even scary. He doesn’t look at me once I’m on my feet, but grabs my shoulder and pushes me along ahead of him so hard I almost fall over again. I wonder, with a sense of rising dread, if I’ve been betrayed. If, in fact, the rebels have not elected to accept me at all, but instead have struck a deal with the Company to turn me in. Worse yet, perhaps there was never a rebellion at all: perhaps it was all just an elaborate ruse, a test of my loyalty to the Company, which, after having failed it, necessitates the forfeiture of my freedom.
But there is no time for speculation. Already, the huge door before us has risen and three men walk out to greet us, moving almost as quickly as we are. Each wears the familiar HR squad uniform complete with the white star on the cap, but atop these stars is stitched the insignia of a black padlock, the mark of the prison division.
The squad member in the middle, obviously the commander, has a thickly muscled neck, popping with veins, and small, dark eyes. “What is this?” he says as he approaches us. “We haven’t gotten any communication whatsoever about a prisoner coming in today.”
“It’s an anarchist informant,” Ethan says, in a voice unlike his own. “We caught this one, and she pointed the way to the nest where the rest of ’em are hiding. Blackwell ordered us not to talk about it over the airwaves or the net—those damned anarchists have big ears. Blackwell doesn’t want to tip them off.”
The prison commander is sucking on his upper lip. “So what am I supposed to do with this one? I don’t have a cell arranged, I don’t have a prisoner number. . . . ”
“I don’t care what you do with her, but do it fast. We’re expecting a nasty fight when we catch those damned unprofitables, and we’ll be needing every gun we can get. I’m under orders to haul tail back down there as soon as the prisoner is dropped off. And if you can spare anybody, they’re to come with me. Send ’em to the garage in the west quadrant. We’ll pull around and they can fall in behind us.”
The commander is shaking his head. “I didn’t hear a word about any of this. . . . ”
My heart is sinking. It’s not going to work; he’s not buying it.
“Look,” Ethan says. “I don’t have time to hold your hand here. You don’t want to spare any of your men, fine. Explain it to Blackwell when you see him. Just take this prisoner off my hands so I can get back where the action is.”
“I’m just gonna call headquarters and confirm all this,” says the commander. His nostrils are flared, like a bloodhound trying to sniff out the truth.
I’m shaking with tension. This isn’t going to work. . . .
Ethan doesn’t seem worried at all. “Do whatever you want,” he says with a dismissive shrug.
Now the commander steps over to me, takes my jaw in his hands and raises my chin up, studying me.
“It’s an anarchist, alright,” he says, his sour breath reeking against my face. “Cut out its cross and everything. A woman, too. I thought she was a man when you were bringing her up. We’ll have fun with this one.”
“Great,” says Ethan. “Well, I’m going to be getting out of here. . . . ”
The commander nods, still eyeing me. I stare at the ground, refusing to meet his gaze, playing the role of the prisoner, afraid to let him see the gleeful foreknowledge of vengeance seething inside me.
“Take her in and strip her down,” the commander says to one of his men. “Have Baz get her in oranges and assign her a cell.”
“Alright,” says Ethan, affecting impatience. “She’s your prisoner now. I’m outta here—right after I use your john. Where is it?”
“This way,” says the commander. “I’ll show you.”
And we all walk toward the big, steel door.
My heart beats like a struggling captive in my chest as we step inside. Behind us, the door closes with a low bang of terrifying finality.
Here it comes, I think to myself, this is where the revolution begins.
~~~
Our footsteps echo from the polished concrete of the walls, the ceiling, the floor. One squad member behind me pokes my ass with the butt of his rifle and another one stifles a laugh. Lights hanging above, bare bulbs housed in plain, steel shades, cast strange shadows as we pass by—one, two, three, four of them.
Then a word, slowly and clearly spoken, breaks the monotony of footfalls. “Sigma,” Ethan says, and I see his hand fall to his gun an instant before the lights above click out. In the blackness, the guards around me are too startled even to make a sound.
I hear the commander in front of me mutter in exasperation, “Okay, what’s—”
And an ear-splitting report cuts his voice down to nothing. Two more muzzle-flares, two more cracks; I feel the heat of the shots as they speed past me, and I know the guards on either side of me are dead, though I can’t see them fall.
I feel Ethan’s hands on my wrists, hear the tiny clok as he unlocks my cuffs, feel the grip of the ceramic pistol as he presses it into my palm.
“Put these on,” Ethan hands me something else—some sort of glasses. I put them on and instantly the darkness around me burns with strange, iridescent shapes. I see Ethan in front of me, his features all intact but somehow without detail. On his face, he wears the strange sunglasses
that had been on his head earlier.
“Fire at any movement,” he says, “and stay close.”
He leads me back the way we came, perhaps twenty yards. On my left, I make out a door I hadn’t noticed coming in.
Voices behind it: “You think it’s a drill? Where’s the back-up power?”
Ethan knocks, and as the door swings open he steps through, gun barrel already flashing. Three squadmen fall before I’m even through the doorway. The target I see first is a small-looking man who is either trying to cower behind a desk or looking for a gun in a drawer. It takes me three shots, but he falls, howling like a wild animal.
Only one of the squadmen in the room gets a shot off, firing at Ethan’s head and striking the steel door behind him with a deep metallic clung. Ethan hits him in the throat, and even with my strange, truncated vision I can see the blood erupt from his neck. Ethan shoots two more guards and I get one, clipping him in the shoulder, the shot spinning him around so he drops his gun. Ethan steps up to him and shoots him once in the face, finishing him off, and I thank God I am spared the details and can only see the shape as his head distorts in the darkness. I know that I should be scared—or sad, perhaps—but the adrenaline makes any emotion impossible. All I feel is an overpowering, exhilarating drive to survive.
Now, back to the main hall. We enter three more rooms in the same way; one is empty and the other holds a few squadmen that we quickly dispatch. I replace my clip. This time, before we step back into the main hall, we can hear squadmen amassing there, their voices hardened and brittle with forced bravado. Taking cover in the doorway, Ethan pushes me to one knee and presses me to the doorjamb as he takes position standing.