For that to happen there must be a regime change at the IMM. Our man in Montreal, Vice-Mayor Jerome Trembles, is ready to put our plan into motion once Jonathan Flagg no longer stands in his way. Flagg has proven both incorruptible and out of reach. But you are his most trusted agent.
We need you to assassinate the President-Mayor of the Islands of Metropolitan Montreal and destroy the entire apparatus of the Patchwork Procedure.
* * *
6. How I Came to Be Who and What I Am
My mother and my baby brother died in childbirth the summer I turned three years old. I was ostensibly raised by my father, an unambitious middle-management functionary in the halls the IMM government who served the President-Mayor with zealous loyalty, a sentiment he instilled in me so early that it is an indelible part of my identity.
I barely remember my mother—only a vague blur of curly brown hair. I don’t recall a single interaction or any detail of her voice or her face. I have seen daguerreotypes of her, but the images refuse to imprint on my mind. I have fond if unexceptional memories of my father, who died of a heart attack at age fifty and whose own parents perished in a fire at the 1967 Montreal World Expo, along with his two younger sisters. He was ten years old, and no-one in his extended and selfish family accepted custody of him. The World Expo had been Jonathan Flagg’s dream project—a celebration of his hundredth year as President-Mayor and a consolidation of the IMM’s status as the cosmopolitan jewel of the New World. The accident enraged him, and his anger only deepened when he learned of my father’s plight.
Amid much fanfare—I have seen the newspaper clippings—the President-Mayor adopted my father as a ward of the state, while jailing the entire Chandler family under the charge of child abuse for their neglect of the young Paul Chandler. Popular opinion was entirely on side. The unmarried and notoriously celibate Flagg had no children of his own; I realized early in my own acquaintance with Flagg that my dull and unimaginative father disappointed Flagg’s expectations that he would become a worthy adopted son.
Jonathan Flagg’s true affections skipped a generation. The President-Mayor looms much larger in my imagination than my biological father. Especially after the death of my mother, President-Mayor Flagg became my true parent.
I grew up in the halls of government, at Flagg’s side, observing and absorbing the rules and rituals of political life while my biological father toiled in his unimportant office. Besides the two languages of my infancy—English and French—I also learned to speak Spanish, Nahuatl, Arabic, and Russian, but the language of the Chinese remained beyond my grasp.
When we were alone, I quizzed the President-Mayor relentlessly. Instead of answering directly, he always pointed me in directions that would allow me to come to my own understanding of the world. Nevertheless, more than anyone, he shaped me—shaped me into his personal instrument of covert action, manipulation, and retribution.
* * *
7. I Ask Questions
In silence, I digest Ying Berresford’s revelations. And her improbable request. My familial ties to the President-Mayor are a matter of public record. Berresford and her so-called “Invisible Fingers” (if I’m to believe her monologue) cannot possibly expect me to betray that bond.
Finally, I ask, “What of Arsenault Blanchard? I can now glean that he must be one of yours.”
She replies, “Ask him yourself.”
The door to my cabin slides back, and Blanchard walks in.
Although I trailed him for weeks, this is the closest I’ve ever stood to him. Blanchard is a tall man with light brown hair that falls in waves on his shoulders. His thick, animalistic features and easy smile ooze with brash sensuality and jovial gregariousness. In Montreal, he has a reputation as a pansexual seducer and is known to have a wide circle of influential friends. His brash physicality provokes my antipathy, which I do my best to suppress. Diplomacy, I remind myself, could be my only way out of this unexpected situation.
He grabs my hand with both of his, giving me little choice in sharing a handshake. “Sorry for the cat-and-mouse game. If I could have confided in you, I would have; but you weren’t ready to hear the plan, and much less the truth.”
I disengage from his clasp. “The truth?”
Berresford stays seated, observing us detachedly, while Blanchard and I face each other standing.
“Yes, my friend. About the Patchwork Procedure. About Flagg. About how a regime change is the only way forward for Montreal.”
Blanchard and Berresford have plenty more to say, to reveal. None of it contradicts what I already know, yet I’m not sure how much to believe, nor how much to trust their professed intentions.
* * *
8. I Contemplate Treason
Berresford and Blanchard leave me alone with my thoughts. I have decided that the best course is to say that I am withholding judgment. I suspect that were I to embrace too fully the agenda laid out by my... rescuers?... captors?... they would be suspicious that my words were duplicitous and that I would turn on them at the first opportunity. There’s no question that they saved me from being executed by La Nouvelle France Indépendante. Perhaps they deserve some consideration. On the other hand, by Berresford’s own admission, the Invisible Fingers have plunged the world into a new Global War. How many millions will die as a result?
Then again, she claimed that war was coming regardless. Perhaps their behind-the-scenes manipulation of the war will ultimately save lives and prevent atrocities. I cannot untangle the ethics of all of this.
Whether all this is truth or deception—can I really assassinate the man who was more of a father to me than my own well-meaning but ineffectual sire?
As I ponder, I am thrown to the floor of my cabin by a violent rocking of the Sky Dragon, which is immediately followed by the sounds of a siren and of an explosion.
A dishevelled Blanchard rushes into my cabin. “We’re under attack. Follow me.”
I do as he says, and ask, “Is it the New French?”
“I don’t know. We’re deep in Chinese territory, flying over the Laurentians. I’d be surprised if the NFI had followed us this far and this quickly. But it could be. It could also be the Chinese. They may have noticed that this is not really one of theirs. Either way, we need to escape.”
Blanchard leads me to an open hatch. The wind is terrible, and the ship is rocking dangerously, losing altitude. He says, “Have you ever jumped?”
Before I can respond, Blanchard outfits himself in an intricate harness and gathers me to him.
“Hold tight and don’t let go.”
He propels us out of the ship, and I fight the panic that screams to overwhelm me. Blanchard laughs. He shouts in my ear, the savage wind nearly but not quite ripping the words from his mouth before they can reach me: “And I thought you were a tough guy, mister assassin man.” I see others jumping from other hatches, parachutes opening. Some of them are shot down immediately. Blanchard releases our parachute, and still I can’t stop trembling. I could say it’s from the cold winds at such a high altitude, but I’d be lying.
Our parachute is pierced by a bullet, but we’re now less than thirty metres from the lakeshore below. We have a rough landing in shallow water, but we’re lucky and make it out with nothing worse than sore bruises and minor gashes.
From his backpack, Blanchard pulls out a knife and hands it to me. “We don’t know who or what we’ll run into. You’ll need this.”
* * *
9. At the New World Wall of China
After two days of trudging without incident through the woods of the Eternal Chinese Empire, we approach the shore of the St. Lawrence River, or to be more precise the New World Wall of China, which fortifies the riverbank from the mouth of the Grands Lacs at Cataraqui and stretches east to a few hundred kilometres beyond Québec.
There’s a border crossing to the Islands of Metropolitan Montreal within sight, the Laval Bridge. Blanchard and I are well hidden by trees and shrubs.
I would have no pro
blem crossing into the IMM—I know the codes and protocols that designate me as someone whose instructions must be obeyed without question by Montreal security forces, including the border guards. Besides, all the highest ranking officers at IMM border crossings know me by sight in my official capacity as the Chief Security Advisor to the President-Mayor. But first I must negotiate the Chinese exit border station. The military presence here does not seem larger than usual. In the fledgling conflict, Montreal must still be considered neutral in Chinese eyes. Perhaps there’s hope.
After the attack on the clandestine Sky Dragon, Blanchard offered to help me get to the border, after which we would part ways. I would return to Montreal to execute Flagg; he would disappear into the ECE wilderness and rejoin the Invisible Fingers.
Blanchard says, “This is where I leave you. I know you’re still unsure as to what to do, but I believe you’ll come to the right decision. Montreal is key to our plans for world peace, and for it to be a symbol of the new world order it can no longer be allowed to prosper at the cost of such unspeakable suffering. Investigate. You’ll see that everything I have said about the Patchwork Procedure is true. You’ll know to do the right thing.”
“I’ve been pondering everything you and Berresford told me,” I tell him.
“I have three gas grenades in my backpack. They’re yours. They should be enough to knock out most of the Chinese guards and give you a chance to cross the border.”
“That stuff your allies used to knock us out at the Prison Commune?”
He nods.
“No,” I say. “I have a better idea.”
I’m on top of him before he can react. I punch him hard in the head seven times, enough to make him dizzy. The knife he gave me earlier is at his throat before he can recover.
I whisper, “Remove your backpack and get on your stomach.” He stretches out on the ground. I sit on his back and use the knife to tear his clothes off. I accidentally nick the skin near his ribs; he yells out. I hit the side of his head with the handle of the knife. “Quiet.” After that, I’m less careful and leave more streaks of blood on him. He doesn’t make a sound.
Finally, he’s naked. With strips of his clothes I bind his wrists, his arms, and his ankles; I muffle his mouth. I say, “Get up, Blanchard. You’re coming back as my prisoner.”
He glares at me but does as I command. Being tied up hinders his mobility, so it takes him a few tries, but he finally accomplishes it.
There’s burning hatred in Blanchard’s eyes. Good. I was beginning to think that nothing could get to him. Regardless of whatever grudging respect he’s earned from me, that cloying charm of his still grates on me. I take a moment to bask in having pierced Blanchard’s armour. Involuntarily I let out a chuckle, and Blanchard’s face contorts with rage. Excellent. To make sure he seethes even more, I say, “I already knew about the donor dungeon. About Hochelaga. I already knew everything. My loyalty will always be to Jonathan Flagg.”
I push Blanchard until we get to the edge of the road leading to the Laval Bridge. Then I shove him out into the open. His naked body falls on the gravel path. Chinese soldiers train their guns on him.
Before walking out into the open with my hands in the air, I dispose of the blade Blanchard gave me. It would suicidal to approach the Chinese border station with any weapons. Half of the guns turn toward me. I kick Blanchard and hiss, “Get up.”
It takes him a minute or two, but feels much longer, what with the Chinese border guards aiming their rifles at us.
I nudge Blanchard up the path toward the border.
When I get near enough, I ask, first in English, then in French, if any of them speak either language. I don’t make any concessions to Chinese propriety. I speak as belligerently as possible. Only complete confidence can get me out of this, and even then there’s a risk they’ll simply shoot both of us. Although I notice in the distance IMM border guards paying attention to what’s happening. That might be enough to prevent the Chinese from being too trigger-happy.
One of the men, from his uniform I recognize that he is the commander of this border station, shouts, “Français!”
In French, I tell him, “My name is Lambert Chandler. I am a security officer for the office of President-Mayor Jonathan Flagg of the Islands of Metropolitan Montreal. This prisoner, Arsenault Blanchard, is a spy for La Nouvelle France Indépendante. I am returning him to the IMM so that he may face justice. There was no time to alert the Chinese authorities that I had to enter your territory to apprehend him. Had I hesitated, this New French agent would be loose in the Eternal Chinese Empire. I judged that your government, like mine, would want this enemy arrested at all costs. If we can speak with the commander of the Montreal border station, she will confirm my identity.”
The Chinese commander shouts something in his own language to his men. One of them lowers his gun and approaches me. He pats me down thoroughly and finds nothing. The guard positions himself behind me; I feel the end of his gun against my back. The commander picks up the telephone that hangs on a pole near the gate. It’s a closed-circuit line that connects the two border stations; I’m hoping that he is right now speaking to his opposite number, Commander Charlotte Boulanger. I scan for activity on the IMM side of the border.
The Chinese border chief hangs up the phone and addresses me in French. “Walk up to the gate. Leave your prisoner where he is.”
I do as he says. The guard stays behind too and now aims his rifle at the naked Blanchard. As I approach, Commander Boulanger and her aide come up to the other side of the gate. I nod at her to indicate that she can speak freely.
The Chinese border chief says to her, “Identify this man.”
She repeats what I’ve already told him.
The Chinese commander shouts a command to the guard next to Blanchard; he shoots my prisoner dead.
The commander turns to me, his eyes betraying that he did not entirely believe my story, and says, “I am satisfied as to your identity, Mr. Chandler. Thank you for having helped us remove a New French threat to our national security. The Eternal Chinese Empire welcomes the friendship of the IMM.”
He opens the gate, and it takes three steps for me to be safely home.
* * *
10. Back in the IMM
I had hoped to save both of us; but I knew I could not reach my goal without putting Blanchard at risk. I could think of no other scenario that would have had the slightest chance of success, and anyway I was not ready to let go of Blanchard. I was still undecided whether to make him an ally or to deliver him to IMM justice. I could have told him my treatment of him was a ploy—it was, in part—but he had to be a convincing prisoner, and I could not betray the slightest empathy toward his plight, nor could we be observed to share even a hint of complicity. Otherwise, the Chinese would not have believed me. The border chief nevertheless suspected that I was not telling the entire truth. He had Blanchard killed to let me know without jeopardizing diplomatic relations between the ECE and the IMM.
I ask to be brought to the President-Mayor immediately. I’m put aboard the next train to downtown Montreal and given my own cabin. Fresh clothes are laid out for me, as is a basin of clean water; I do what I can to once more make myself presentable. Two hours later, in the heart of the metropolis’s port district, I walk up the stairs to City Hall to meet with Flagg.
First, I stop by my office for some supplies. Then I visit the office of the Vice-Mayor. My position within the administration means that no-one below the President-Mayor himself can refuse me an audience. Trembles is in. Without preamble, I say, “I have been sent by the Invisible Fingers.” His face betrays him. I subdue and handcuff him.
I walk him through the corridors and stairwells of government. People point and whisper. It’s not every day that the Vice-Mayor is paraded in chains by the Chief Security Advisor to the President-Mayor.
Normally, I am one of the few who can be admitted to the President-Mayor’s office without the presence of the Flagg’s securit
y detail. But today, given that I am requesting an audience with the handcuffed Vice-Mayor in tow, I am not afforded that privilege. Three of the President-Mayor’s bodyguards precede us inside.
* * *
11. Whatever Happened to Hochelaga?
The Island of Montreal did not escape the Global War of 1881-1911 unscathed, despite the reported best efforts of its celebrated defender, then-Governor Jonathan Flagg. The greatest casualty was the devastating bombing of the village of Hochelaga, a centuries-old indigenous settlement at the foot of Mount Royal, which had maintained independence from European rule throughout the colonial era.
Some reports say the Eternal Chinese Empire was responsible. Others point the finger at the United Emirates of Allah. Some even claim that it was an Eagle of Quetzalcoatl that dropped the bombs. The war was chaotic. The world does not know for sure.
But the truth has not been entirely suppressed. And that is the secret Blanchard escaped with. For all I know, the secret died with him and with the attack on the counterfeit Sky Dragon. Perhaps not. Perhaps at this very moment Chinese interrogators are wresting the truth from Ying Berresford.
Despite what I’d boasted to Blanchard before his death, I had not known any of it.
But I was not surprised. I did not want to believe, yet I knew I was being revealed the truth by the agents of the Invisible Fingers. Throughout my life in the inner circles of the Islands of Metropolitan Montreal, I had heard and seen things I had chosen to ignore. Now that the veil has been unequivocally parted, I can no longer ignore reality.
My devotion to Jonathan Flagg and my love of the Montreal he created made me turn a blind eye to the secrets of the Patchwork Procedure. Had I ever wanted to investigate the truth, all doors would have been open to me. I was, after all, the Chief Security Advisor to the President-Mayor himself. If I had been deceived, I had been willingly deceived. I had always suspected something was profoundly wrong about the administration of the Patchwork Procedure; I had chosen to remain ignorant.
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