by Lucas Bale
‘No,’ Abraham said. ‘I lived with you and the others for a long time. I grew used to them, and I understood them. They were predictable and familiar to me. And their actions, from the time I was able to observe them, told me they were more deserving of life than the chukiri.’
‘You didn’t care about what they had done in the past?’
‘I cannot judge what I have not seen.’
‘Why is it so important to you that we accept you?’
Abraham hesitated. ‘Sofia believes that if we burden you with too much, it will confuse you.’
‘What do you believe?’
‘I believe you deserve my trust.’
‘Then trust me,’ Gant said. ‘You’re asking the same of me.’
Abraham nodded. ‘You’re right. You ask why it is so important that you accept us. There are many reasons. Some of my kind believe we share a kinship with you, that our origins coincide. It is their belief that mankind can help us determine our future. Others see some biological similarities, but abhor your savagery. Still others want nothing more than to observe and analyse you. However, all of us believe that we, as a genus, will benefit from a physical and social proximity to humanity.’
‘What about you? What do you believe?’
‘I hope we can accept each other as equals. I would like to understand what it means to have friendship.’
‘But you’re so different from us,’ Gant said.
‘Perhaps,’ Abraham said. ‘But we are similar too.’
Gant looked into eyes that probably hid no soul, at least none he could understand, but he knew Abraham was right. They were similar—he couldn’t deny that any longer.
C H A P T E R 41
WEAVER FELT the weight of the pistol tucked into his trousers, against the small of his back, and the explosives arranged on a magnetic rack strapped around his stomach. Rain began to fall, and he shucked the wetness away from his face. The clouds had darkened overhead and the sun had vanished behind them. Even in this pitiable canton, at this time of day when refectory khana was being taken by many, the walkways were bustling. The lower castes went about their business hurriedly, because curfew was less than two hours away.
If a revolution were ever to come, Weaver thought as he watched them, if the Magistratus believed it could come from anywhere, it would come from here. Brauron had taught the affluent to be satisfied with what they possessed. It was once said that the masses would not revolt of their own volition, nor revolt merely because they were oppressed—indeed, so long as they had no point of comparison, they would never even become aware they were oppressed. Yet these people did have a comparison—and still they did nothing but live out their lives in fear. As they passed him, hunkered against the rain, Weaver wondered how many of their sallow faces would be among those on the Consul’s ship when it left; how many of them truly knew they were prisoners.
A precious few, if any.
The synthetic polymer of the mask, seated over the sculpted resin which re-shaped his face, irritated his skin. He blinked away the rain and scanned the drawn faces around him. He knew none could possibly recognise him, yet in every face he saw flashes of recognition: eyes that lingered on him a little too long, movements of the body that might have been towards him, threatening even. All of it in his head, he knew—an invention of his fear. Yet he couldn’t stop his heartbeat from quickening.
He glanced down at the mechanical timepiece on his wrist, wiping away the rain from its scuffed face. There was not long to go. So old, he thought, these clockwork devices, replaced completely a hundred years ago by the modules everyone used. They were antiques now, possessed only by the wealthy, who wore them as affectations, or by families who had kept them as reminders of their past. It surprised him that they had never been added to the long list of possessions that were now proscribed. He wondered how much precision was required within the tiny clockwork parts to ensure these pieces kept time perfectly. How clever we are, to produce something like this, he thought. To build great cities like Theia. Starships. To be able to cure disease and heal wounds. Yet because of the pride of an entitled few, the many face slavery—or genocide. He forced himself to focus, to ignore the bitterness crawling inside him.
He had watched the gunship begin its patrol in the canton, swooping down from the sprawling Peacekeeper garrison on the outskirts of the city. He had then boarded the next Conduit to take him to the other side of the canton. Now, as he waited, the pressure on his chest grew.
He searched the crowd for Skoryk, but couldn’t see him. Good, he thought, as he scanned the tavara and galleries. If I cannot see you, then neither can the cameras.
It had been a compromise, that Skoryk’s distraction would come almost without Weaver being able to anticipate it and follow it. There was a window, of course—perhaps thirty seconds—when the gunship would be in a position to pick up Skoryk’s distraction and act on it. Then it would be up to Skoryk to make his escape. The cameras would follow him and relay that information to the gunship, but the Peacekeepers would know instantly that, in order to arrest him, they would need to be on foot as well as in the air. And from the moment the gunship hit the ground, Weaver would have less than five seconds to act.
He shifted slightly as ripples of sweat ran down his back. He pulled out of the rain, stepping beneath the canopy of one of the tavara, all the while watching citizens funnel up and down the walkway and onto and off the Conduit. He found his throat was dry. There was no way back after this. This was the turning point—his first true betrayal. Or had that moment already passed? The reality was, he knew, that his loyalty had evaporated the second the privateer ship bled through Jieshou’s upper atmosphere and began its attack. On him, on thousands of innocent people.
He checked the timepiece again. Less than two minutes. He listened for the high-pitched whine, but couldn’t yet hear it. He glanced through the crowd, waiting. When he saw them, two men he recognised and knew well, his chest tightened.
Two Caesteri. Young men, neither of them noviciates, and both from a different canton. Both wore civilian clothes. Why were they all the way over here? They couldn’t possibly know about him, could they? Could it be a trap? He watched them carefully, scrutinising every movement. He raised his hand absently to his face, almost as if he was subconsciously confirming his mask was still in place. They cannot see you well enough from there, he told himself. They cannot possibly know who you are.
The thoughts didn’t still his hammering heart.
There was no way to tell Skoryk—no way to abort the operation. Skoryk would create his distraction, and the two Caesteri on the ground would be on him before he could run. If he were caught, with what he knew…
Weaver fingered the charges around his waist and tried to think. His approach had been simple: he had intended to walk past the gunship immediately as it landed. The magnetic strip would anchor the charges to the hull, and he could walk away. He had just enough explosive to pierce the armour plating and funnel a half dozen pulses of energy and shrapnel into the breach. Skoryk, meanwhile, could take any of several routes to a single, predetermined tavara where he could change his clothes and remove his mask, and where the galleries would lead him into a busy part of the canton. Then he could slip into the crowds heading home before curfew, unseen. He would have no time to replace the mask with a new one, but Skoryk had scouted the route and knew to avoid the cameras.
Yet now the plan had to be changed. Weaver needed a second distraction—he would have to give the Caesteri something to focus on other than Skoryk, to give the Bazaar’s man the precious seconds he needed to escape.
He glanced around feverishly, searching for inspiration. The Caesteri had stopped on the other side of the Conduit and were speaking to each other, laughing at some witticism one had told the other.
It was at that moment that the gunship’s whine began to creep along the walkway.
Think, damn you! Weaver scoured the length of the walkway, analysing where the gunship woul
d most likely have to land. There were only a handful of options where it would have sufficient room to manoeuvre.
The growl of the gunship’s engines intensified.
A second explosion. There was no other way. Something to attract the attention of the Caesteri for those precious moments Skoryk would need. Yes! But where? The two explosions would have to occur at the same time—the Peacekeepers filtering out of the gunship could have no warning. And Weaver could not attract their attention to him, or they would see his attack coming and cut him down.
He glanced around. A single charge against a window, he thought quickly. The shattered glass wouldn’t damage the building structurally, and if it was away from the main walkway, the likelihood of citizens being injured was minimal. Yet the resulting chaos might just be enough to enable Skoryk’s escape.
Weaver turned and walked quickly, head down. The rain fell in thick, heavy sheets and ran down his face. The gunship entered the walkway, kicking up a cold wind around him. Citizens turned and stared upwards. Even now, he thought. Even now, even seeing those things every day, they still terrify you. Because you know what can happen. Yes, these people had a comparison—there were those that lived better than they did—but none of these citizens would choose to land the first blow. None of them wanted to be singled out as a dissident. They knew they were oppressed, but they lived in fear and could do nothing about it.
He knelt quickly, sliding one of the charges from the strip.
His hands were trembling and slick from the rain. The charge fell from his grip and rolled. He followed it with his eyes, too slow to move, to grab for it as it rolled along the walkway. He could only watch as a small boy peeled away from his mother, who was staring up at the gunship, and picked it up from the ground. The boy looked at it—this charge of high explosive he held unwittingly in his hand—and then looked at Weaver. Weaver’s breath caught in his throat.
He offered his hand, and the boy held the charge out to him.
Weaver took it and laid it on a ledge about half a metre off the ground, next to one of the tall windows of the tavara. The boy watched him as he did so.
Weaver glanced up. The gunship was above him now, moving slowly between the tavara, its brilliant white light flooding the rain, which glistened within the beam like crystals in the sky.
The crack of gunfire echoed even above the roar of the engines.
Weaver snapped his head down and left; he saw Skoryk firing his pistol at the gunship. Four shots—then he turned and ran. Weaver glanced at the Caesteri. It took them a half second to react, and then they were moving, their own weapons drawn. They pushed through the crowd.
Weaver turned to the boy and said, ‘Take your mother, boy. Run away. Now!’
The boy’s eyes widened and his jaw fell slack.
‘Run, boy!’
Screams burst from the lips of frightened citizens. One woman shrank away, stumbling backwards; another reached for her own terrified child. The boy nodded dumbly, mouth still gaping, and seized his mother’s hand. Then he pulled her away.
Weaver activated the charge and walked quickly, counting off the seconds in his head.
Three…
The Caesteri struggled through the crowd, reaching over people and hauling them to the side, pushing, barging their way through. They had seen Skoryk, knew him to be a threat, and were reaching for their weapons.
Two…
They shouted, made their identities known, and the throng slowly backed away, allowing them through. Weaver saw the determination on their faces, mixed with uncertainty as they ran. The flash of anger in their eyes.
One…
Weaver watched the gunship coming in to land. It was too far away. He had taken too long, hadn’t been able to get himself into position. He would have to run to make it. Running will attract attention, but what choice do I have?
He broke into a sprint.
The shockwave from the explosion behind him buffeted him, nearly knocking him over, but the tavara bled most of the energy away. He stumbled but kept running. Glass shattered over the stone walkway, some of it carrying so far as to pepper his back. More screams echoed in his ears. He didn’t look to see if anyone was hurt. He had only this once chance.
The gunship came to a hover less than a metre from the walkway. A hatch slid open.
Weaver was nearly there, but it seemed so far. There’s no time! He ducked behind people who were now themselves running, desperate to keep to the other side of the gunship. Peacekeepers jumped out, landing gracefully at a run, sliding through the crowd like black snakes, even though the gunship was barely near enough to the ground. Their weapons were extended, searching for the threat. Cameras would be relaying data to them now, showing them Skoryk as he ran.
Any second now the gunship would lift off. Weaver’s chance would be gone.
He shoved a woman aside; she shouted at him. He couldn’t hear what she said, didn’t care, but the shout made one of the Peacekeepers turn slightly. Through that ghastly helmet the Peacekeeper’s eyes would now be falling on him, watching him run towards the gunship. A tall, powerful man, hooded, pulling a strip of explosive charges from beneath his long coat. A new threat; a more urgent one.
The Peacekeeper turned impossibly quickly, but Weaver’s pistol was already out.
Without slowing, he fired twice, the projectiles leaving the muzzle of the weapon and kicking it upwards each time. They thumped hard into the armoured chest of the black shape that was bringing its weapon round to him. Throwing him backwards. A stream of fire burst from the Peacekeeper’s weapon, a deafening conflagration of white arcing upwards as he fell away—stunned perhaps, off balance, maybe even hurt. But not dead. Definitely not dead.
Weaver thumbed the timer and turned it off. Seven seconds now. That was all he had.
The gunship began to shudder and prepared to pull away. The wind stung Weaver’s face and blew off his hood. The heat from the vents seared his skin. Weaver fired again as he ducked behind the hull of the gunship; any second now, the Peacekeeper would follow. He tossed the magnetic strip of charges hard at the slatted openings and saw it clamp hard onto the housing.
Then he turned and ran, knowing the Peacekeeper, and the cameras built into his helmet, now had his face. He pushed with the crowd as it surged away from the gunship. More flashes of thunderous white tore the air. More screams. People hurt, maybe dying.
The gunship rose, a few feet from the walkway when the detonation came. It was a low-yield explosive, but Weaver was still too close, and the shockwave punched into his back and tore at ears, flinging him and those around him face first onto slick stone. There was no shrapnel, however: the charges had been shaped to push it all in one direction. There was only an unfurling rose of heat that surged wherever it could. The armoured hull took the bulk of the explosion, the vents funnelling the worst of it into the engines and beyond, but Weaver was still deafened by its roar, shaken by its heat and power.
He clawed his way to his feet, his ears tinny and hollow. Every sound around him was little more than a vague echo. His head reeled, and he stumbled rather than ran. For two blocks he continued like that. Then he found a conveyance on the Conduit and boarded. Citizens stared at him in horror. He caught sight of his reflection in the polished glass; blood smeared his dirty, wet face. His clothes had been blackened by the heat and torn in places as he’d fallen and rolled. He glanced out the window and saw a spiralling plume of charcoal smoke.
He allowed himself to breathe, blinking hard.
It’s begun.
‘There were two Caesteri waiting for us!’ Skoryk shouted. Weaver was changing his clothes and peeling off the final thin layers of the polymer from his tired face as Skoryk came through the door. The moment he saw Weaver, Skoryk had reached for his weapon. Weaver’s own, on the bed beside him, was too far away, so he left it and continued dressing.
‘Not waiting for us,’ Weaver murmured, trying to stay calm. His ears still hummed, and the dizziness hadn’t reced
ed much. His muscles ached as the adrenaline bled away. It was taking longer and longer to recover each time. My body is too old, he thought, and too tired. Even an implant can’t change that. ‘They were just there. It was bad luck.’
‘I don’t believe in bad luck.’
‘Get a hold of yourself. They didn’t go for you until you started firing. They don’t know who we are.’
‘If I even think you betrayed me again, I’ll kill you. I can promise you that.’
Weaver pulled on a jumper and straightened. He turned to Skoryk and frowned. ‘I’m done talking about Jieshou. What you didn’t see was the charge I placed that drew them to me instead of you. That charge delayed me getting to the gunship and turned the Peacekeepers on to me.’ Skoryk didn’t reply, but his gun was still pointed at Weaver, so he continued. ‘We both want to get this done. We don’t have to like each other, but we do have to focus on the mission. So it would benefit both of us for you to start trusting me. Understand?’
Skoryk shook his head. ‘I won’t ever trust you.’
‘That’s your choice,’ Weaver said. ‘And it may just get you killed.’
C H A P T E R 42
WEAVER TOOK a long, convoluted route, as he always did, from the small room to the underground theatre. He took the Conduit too far and then walked back, all the while checking for signs that he was being followed. He took routes that afforded him the opportunity to change his appearance in small ways, like flipping his coat inside out to change its colour and shape, so the surveillance system algorithms would find it more difficult to keep track of him.
The attack on the gunship had resulted in virtually no news on the propaganda channels. The explosion had been explained away as a freak engine accident that had been quickly tended to. Citizens of Theia should not be concerned, the channels assured: such an accident would not occur again and was due to a fault in a manufacturing process that had since been rectified. The gunshots were not mentioned. None of this surprised Weaver. Not until it was impossible to avoid telling the truth, or when it was in the Quorum’s interests to do so, would the channels reveal what had really happened—and then they would try to turn the public against the saboteurs.