The Misrule series Box Set

by Andy Graham

  His captor went limp, sagging in his arms. Rick held for another five seconds before easing up the pressure. He’d just tricked them with one of the oldest moves in the book. He didn’t want to be caught with an even older one. He pulled the man’s stun gun from his belt and let him fall. The balaclava-clad thug slumped to the floor, his chest rising and falling.

  The leader unholstered his own stun gun. His loose-fitting shirt flapped in a breeze of warm air that sent crisp packets swirling through the dust. “We were supposed to give the protesters a poke here and there. Keep things feisty but not leave any evidence,” he said. “But then we happened across a war hero. I think we can make an exception for you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The Unsung, we’re new in town. But I have a feeling you and your family are going to be seeing a lot of us in the future.”

  “Hope the rest of you are better than these two,” Rick said. “Three against one should have been an easy hit.”

  “Not when two of them have barely got brains for one. These idiots only got three settings: drink, fuck or break.”

  “Guess I’m lucky I got the last,” Rick said as they manoeuvred for space between the tight walls. “Did the Mennai People’s Council send you?"

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” The man nodded to the bodies on the floor. “I should thank you. These rooks just learnt the hard way that it takes more than a new title to make a man. Doesn’t it, Major?”

  “I didn’t ask for the promotion.”

  “You think I care?”

  One of the men on the floor groaned, his heels scraping on the floor. Sirens filtered through the alley way. A distant explosion was followed by screams. Thoughts of his wife and child and the protests in the street were muffled and distant. Rick’s world had reduced down to a few metres: the flies buzzing around the bins, the creak of his boots, the Unsung man in front of him. Rick forced his breathing steady and smooth.

  “C’mon, Major,” the leader whispered. “These things got one shot each. Let’s see how quick a hero is.”

  A flash of light exploded at the entrance to the alley. A screech of tyres. The eyelids on one of the bodies flickered open. Rick and the Unsung raised their weapons and two shots rang out in the fetid air.

  A shot slammed home. One man collapsed to the alley floor, blue sparks spiralling around his body. His limbs were locked out straight. Fingers splayed wide. Rick had been quicker by a prayer’s breath. He rolled to his knees and dropped his stun gun. Even that simple movement brought tears to his eyes. His shoulder had had enough pain for one lifetime.

  He staggered over to the man he had just shot and nudged him in the leg. The thug didn’t respond. Rick tugged the balaclava off. The shaven-headed man stared at the sky with blank eyes, his face locked into a rictus grin. Rick had hoped he may recognise his attacker. That it had been someone he had known or worked with or at least annoyed somehow, but he had no idea who the guy was.

  He sniffed. Fresh urine. A steaming puddle of it was spreading underneath the guy’s trousers. It trickled away in rivulets that tracked through the dust. Rick’s shot, despite being lower than he had been trained to shoot, had at least hit the target. He felt a flash of sympathy for the guy as he worked the sensation back into his shoulder. If this was what a partial hit did, the other man was going to be in pain every time he pissed for months. The hells only knew what anything more adventurous would feel like.

  He went through his attackers’ pockets. Nothing. No ID, no radios, phones, not even a tracking device. No clue as to why they had singled him out nor knew who he was. As he tugged a handful of loose change out of a pocket, one of them groaned. Time to disappear before the police appeared and accused him of mugging the trio.

  Rick stumbled out of the alley, tripping over his legs as he ran. His phone buzzed. He fumbled for it. Another official message. Come to the service entrance at the back of the presidential offices, alone.

  Rick squeezed his way through the mobs of people choking the streets. Shadows were reclaiming the city from the sunset. The red and blue emergency lights of the police and military vehicles carved them up into a procession of flickering shapes. The taste of smoke from the burning city across the river was heavier here, mixing with the perfume of rebellion that clung to the crowds.

  He pushed against the flow of the protests, staying close to the edges. He didn’t want to be swamped in the centre but was avoiding the gaping mouths of the alleys. Protesters threw inviting smiles at him to join their game. Others glared, hands hidden in their pockets, steel glinting under coats and waistbands. Rick bullied his way forwards, forced a path through the clashing tambourines and drums. People grabbed him. Pushed and swore at him. He fought back the urge to lash out and shoved someone out of the way. He left a trail of insults and frowns in his wake. Ducked. Weaved. Ricocheted off someone and burst through the last line.

  He was in a small concrete clearing in a forest of buildings. The pocket of space stretched along the litter-strewn ground, weaving among the steel and glass buildings that towered over their black stone brethren. He could move. He could breath.

  Behind him, the protestors were dancing away, each out of time with each other, some out of time with themselves. Their banners crackled in the breeze. The rainbows and letters daubed on the cloth jostled for prominence as the tinkling of tiny cymbals and the stamp of feet turned the corner.

  He was alone.

  Rick looked at the sun to orient himself and sped over to an alleyway. He ducked his head around the wall. Water leaked from a cracked drain pipe, dripping into a dusty puddle on the floor. Shadows taunted him. Each one hid an army of threats. “C’mon. The alley’s empty,” he whispered.

  He sprinted between buildings tall enough to look like they touched at the top, past window panes full of dust and cobwebs and emerged into the shadow of Melesau Tower — the president’s tower, named after the larger of the two moons. After a breathless few minutes spent hunting the back entrance he had been directed to, Rick was met by a young woman from Sci-Corps. She introduced herself as Private Marka.

  The dark-eyed soldier was tongue-tied with excitement over meeting the hero of Castle Brecan and the brains behind the sun-fans. She led him along identical bland corridors. People rushed past, refusing to make eye contact. Marka’s heels clicked on the floor, as impeccably timed as her uniform was pressed. She bustled him through one of many identical doors, spent a couple of minutes asking him if he needed anything, fussed over his bruises and left, her parting words hanging in the air.

  “What did that mean?” Rick called after her as the door shut. “No matter what happens, it’s been an honour?”

  12

  Paper Galleries & Perspective

  Sink, sofa, desk, wardrobe. The office Private Marka had left Rick in was utilitarian at best. It smacked of a need to get things done, rather than impress people with what was going to get done. He helped himself to water from the sink. The china cup rattled on the porcelain as he put it down. His arm was still numb. He rubbed his shoulder. Looked over his shoulder. He’d checked. There were no cameras. Why did he get the feeling the desk was watching him? Rick pulled the silk hanky the guy with nicotine-coloured teeth had given him from his pocket and wiped the sweat off his brow. Why had those people been waving these things around?

  He was shaking. The nervous energy since the alley scuffle had dissipated into a bruised stiffness. Maybe I should sit down? He sat. On the sofa. Seemed a sensible idea. The sofa smelt new; the leather had that slippery stiffness to it that needed years of sitting to soften up. His restless legs and adrenaline-addled body fidgeting, Rick persevered with the sofa. Then he found a pair of black knickers stuffed between two of the cushions. The plain wooden chair in the centre of the room seemed a better bet at that point. Less voyeuristic, fewer surprises.

  He scratched his head. Sat on his hands. Picked alley dirt from under his fingernails. Sighed and huffed and puffed and looked for something to keep his min
d busy.

  The walls were plain except for a picture that looked like it had been drawn by a child. What the oversized letters underneath it spelt out made no sense, no matter how long he thought about it. Facing that was a simple, uncluttered desk with a computer and an old-fashioned rotary dial phone, a living antique. The picture and phone were the only personal touches in the austere office. Both niggled at Rick, the latter in particular. He had a feeling he recognised it. Next to the computer lay one of the prototype first-generation screens, the mobile computers being fazed into the government and military.

  He checked his phone. No signal. The corridors outside were silent. The door was locked. Questions and theories chased each other through his brain, fuelled by the twitchy post-fight aggression that needed an outlet.

  He still had no idea who had sent him the message summoning him back to the capital, nor who had sent him the second that had directed him here, but instructions via official channels couldn’t be ignored. The messages, the protests in the street and the attack in the alley had squeezed the innocence out of the recent rumours that had been creeping through the barracks and the hospital during his rehab: the military’s resentment of their emasculation by the government, beheadings within big business and backroom dealings that were very much on the shop floor. Even the endurance run Chel had forced on the soldiers in Castle Brecan and the extra training they had had endured — all of it took on a darker light. It reminded him of his father’s grave in the military cemetery: full of flowers and mourners by day but with a very different atmosphere once the moonlit fog was twisting its way round the headstones.

  The last rays of the day’s sun caught the picture on the wall, painting it in shades of red and gold and crimson. The frame held a single sheet of yellowing paper, creases pressed against the glass. Was this where they were heading? Paper resigned to museums and galleries?

  He read the colourful writing again, this time aloud. “The pea is mightier than the sword.” Still made no sense. Maybe it was a spelling mistake?

  A key turned in the door. He jumped up and stood to attention. Oil-black hair gleaming, a slim figure swept into the room. “Now, Rick, what are we going to do with you?”

  Beth’s suit rustled as she sat and looked up at him with those clear blue eyes that had once set his pulse chasing its own tail. “Sit down, you’re safe here.”

  He thrust the silk hanky out. “What’s happening? I got attacked on the way here. Why is everyone waving these things around? What’s going on over the river? Tye is being ruined!”

  “Questions, questions. You always had too many questions.” She patted the sofa. “Come here and I’ll tell you. You could sit on my lap, if you like? That’s where president De Lette wanted me while he answered my questions,” she said with a too-sweet smile. “I did suggest he sit on my lap instead but he didn’t think it was funny. He claimed it didn’t work that way.” Her smile twisted into a sneer. “So I asked him if a man’s penchant for having a smaller woman sitting on his lap was a natural expression of paternalism, possession, protectionism or latent paedophilia.”

  Rick stuffed the hanky back in his pocket. “I might ask too many questions but at least I don’t speak like I’m working my way through a collection of alphabetised nouns. What’s De Lette got to do with this anyway? What are you talking about?”

  “Change.”

  “That’s the second time I’ve heard that this evening.”

  “Get used to it. There’s going to be a lot more of it soon.” She undid her jacket, popped another button of her shirt open and lounged back along one of the sofa arms. “De Lette’s gone. His office was raided. He disappeared. Officially missing, unofficially dead. Luke Hamilton, the VP, is now president.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Doesn’t stop it from being true,” Beth said wearily, as if tired of the same old argument.

  He spun the wooden chair round so its back was facing her and sat. He felt safer this way, had done so since seeing someone stabbed in the stomach in a bar fight. Stann, ever the optimist, had pointed out that sitting like Rick was just made it easier for someone to slit your throat from behind. Rick didn’t think either was a risk here but he felt safer with something solid between him and Beth, given her current mood. He wondered how De Lette had been sitting when Hamilton had usurped him. “Change,” he said, the word heavy with consequence. “Why?”

  “The usual: money and safety, jealousy and fear. Worry that we’ll lose what we have and the next person will have more.”

  “And the demonstrations?”

  “People who want De Lette back. Or people that are afraid of change. Not sure yet.”

  He scratched at the stubble on his chin, wincing as his shoulder twinged. His fingers still didn’t feel like they belonged to him.

  “I could rub that better for you?” Beth offered.

  Rick stared up at the glass-framed picture. The red stain of the setting sun blotted out the letters. He saw Stann’s ruined hand in that light, the dead girl. There was an old man, too, with one gun-grey eye open and a coin closing the other. Half the Ferryman’s toll, Rick realised with an involuntary shudder.

  (One coin for the crossing there. One to bring the boat back. The Ferryman wouldn’t work without payment and without him there could be no Death. And even in the sunniest uplands of the most golden of hearts, no one truly wanted that.)

  Superstitions. Just make believe. He screwed his eyes shut and rubbed them til they had tears in them. He was tired and reluctant to be dragged into the argument Beth was spoiling for, but the conversation had the inevitability of a boulder rolling down a snowy mountain. “It doesn’t make sense. I thought the country had been doing well. Unemployment’s down, productivity up.”

  “Since when does anything need to make sense?” Beth sounded almost bored. “The information we get these days is all a matter of perspective and spin. Two months ago the press mentioned De Lette had spent 0.7 percent of GDP on foreign aid. No one batted an eyelid. Last month the same story was run with the actual number: eight billion. The public went crazy, despairing over the waste. It’s all about presentation. One person’s asylum seeker is the next person’s radical-in-waiting. It’s the same with trade and wealth. Thanks to De Lette, we’re selling more than we ever have but it’s not enough. And amongst all the complaints that the rich are getting richer and the poor poorer, no one is saying the bell curve is shifting to the right.”

  “Relative wealth isn’t the same as absolute wealth.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” Beth replied. “You know where I come from.”

  He did. The Fleet. Squaddies used it as an after-hours fight club. Non-locals unaffectionately knew it as Gallowgutter, which described both the dreams, aspirations and likely futures of its denizens. Beth and her sister had bucked that trend spectacularly.

  “But,” she said, kicking him in the shins to get his attention back, “most of today’s poor have riches their ancestors couldn’t even dream of. Owning a bike is a huge step up from a pair of boots. It makes life so much easier, more productive. And I know people who own boats and still complain they’re struggling to make ends meet.

  “I’ve heard of elderly people rattling around in cavernous houses. They shed quick-drying tears over the plight of the poor and the homeless, when they have more spare rooms than they can keep clean. Families talk in government-sanctioned cliches about tightening their belts for the tough times ahead, all the while doing 3D jigsaws in order to get their presents into their cars for the Midwinter’s Day pilgrimage to their relatives. The hard-core poor and their poverty-chic who dress down to emphasise their rough and ready nature. ‘We’re all in it together,’ they bleat, as their expensive spirits and wine clink in their calf-skin leather bags. And I know a landed mother who was forced to lay off one of her au pairs. Constance whined into her pearls about how she now has to do the breakfast and school run herself. Apparently, her husband wanted to fire the gardener instea
d but Constance threatened a divorce.” Beth had a gleam in her eyes as she leaned closer. “She still got an increase in what she calls her annual spousal bonus. How does that add up to not making ends meet?”

  “They’re extreme examples, Beth.” He answered despite himself. This had always been a problem between them: neither would back down and Beth — never him, of course — insisted on questioning everything. It was among the things that had drawn him to her in the first place but had driven him to despair. A body that was pliable and willing and demanding had also been part of the attraction, he recalled. Relationships, Rick decided, were like the mythical Cat of Shrew Dinger that had lived before the Great Flood: they allowed you to love and not love, laugh and cry, and want and not want, all at the same impossible time. And now he wanted and didn’t want his ex.

  “The principle’s the same.” Beth slid along the sofa. Closer. Close enough for it to mean something. Rick pushed her back. She batted his hand off her shoulder and stabbed a finger towards his face. A tingle ran down his spine as she grinned at him. “Life’s so much better now than it ever has been, Rick.”

  “Tell that to the people only allowed into certain shops to clean them, because the bit of plastic in their pocket is the wrong colour.” His blood was up now: angry at her and the Unsung thugs, at De Lette for keeping him away from his family, at himself for feeling the way he did. “When both relative and absolute wealth are being flaunted in front of you, this magical, shifting bell curve you talk about sounds like an excuse masquerading as a theory. I’ve seen the get of the privileged using cash money to light cigars in front of the homeless. And I’ve heard of expensive initiation rituals into the old boys’ network of drinking clubs and backroom favours that make me want to retch.”