The Misrule series Box Set

by Andy Graham

Ray slid the bolt free. The door swung open. Fresh tear tracks scored their faces. It carved lines through the mud and the fear that was stripping the childhood from them. The boy leapt into his arms. The girl hung back, her blonde curls twitching from side to side. “I’m scared. I want Mummy.”

  “Jump!”

  Seth staggered to his feet, a crimson splash on his temple.

  “I’m scared.” The girl backed off, shuffling farther back into the van. There was a thud of rotor blades, a sudden gust of wind as a chopper appeared over the forest.

  “You have to jump,” Ray shouted. His ankle quivered, threatening to pull him down to the ground. His back pain was starting to stir, twitching hot fingers grasping for the bones in his spine.

  Seth’s fingers tightened around his knife hilt. The blade, jagged and triangular, blinked in the midmorning sun. It was a Mennai weapon. What’s Seth doing with one of those? The part of Ray’s mind that was racing through his options knew exactly why Seth had such a blade — Ray had seen firsthand the types of wounds they left.

  Seth took a step forwards, his limbs swimming in the rotor wash, his eyes unfocused.

  The boy twisted in Ray’s arms, shifting his centre of balance. Ray’s back and ankle gave out. He crumpled face down to the ground. The boy spilled onto the floor beside him. He heard the girl’s screams choke. Ray reached for the truck bed. His fingertips scrabbled at the edge of the metal. Two of the attackers broke off from the main group, heading for Ray, the man with a beret and another with skin the colour of ice. They were too far away. Seth was closing, his eyes regaining their focus.

  Hands hooked under Ray’s armpits and hauled him to his feet. Nascimento thrust the little girl into Ray’s arms.

  “Hit me and run,” Nascimento said.

  “What?”

  “Hit me and get the fuck out of here. Do you want me to send you a handwritten letter with a list of instructions on it?”

  For the first time since the Donian Mountains, a flicker of hope sparked into life. “I owe you, Nasc.”

  “Damn right you do. This is becoming a habit. Now hit me.”

  Ray drew back his fist.

  Nascimento’s eyes widened in horror. “Dude, seriously. Knuckles? You break anything and I’ll come hunt you down again, and this time I won’t be so friendly!”

  Ray flashed his friend a quick grin and slapped him across the face. Nascimento howled, pirouetting across the muddy ground like a fat drunk fighting gravity, and fell as if he’d been pole-axed.

  Seth’s eyes came into focus. A sheen of lurid sweat spread across his face. Tossing the knife from hand to hand, he staggered forwards. “You are in so much trouble, Franklin.”

  The girl still clutched in one arm, Ray grabbed the boy’s shoulder. “Run.”

  The boy split for the chopper, towards the beckoning arms of one of the attackers. With the hop-skip lope of the lame, Ray followed. Seth slashed out with the knife. The point snagged Ray’s jacket.

  Nascimento was on his feet. “You’re dead, Franklin!” He lurched forwards, tripped over a blade of grass and crashed into Seth’s back. Both men went down in a cursing tangle of limbs.

  Brennan was wrestling with one of the attackers. His head lifted. He saw Ray and the kids running towards the chopper. “Orr. Stop them!”

  The muzzle of a weapon spat blue fire from the chopper. It cocooned Brennan, wrapping him from head to toe in crackling filigree strands. He collapsed backwards, his face locked in a rictus grin.

  Ray raced over to the chopper. He hurled the little girl up into it. Gloved hands clawed at his arms, dragging him up. The throb of the engines deepened. The helicopter stuttered into the air, away from the carnage below. The door squealed shut. Ray’s stomach felt as if it was sinking through his seat as the chopper gained speed.

  “We did it,” the man with the ice skin yelled. “We did it!”

  “Just in time, too,” another shouted back, high-fiving his partner. “Look,” — he pointed — “the truck convoy’s back. Someone must have radioed it in.”

  Amidst the laboured breathing and dull moans coming from the injured was a palpable sense of relief.

  The little girl kicked her way out of the grasp of one of the rescuers and squirmed onto Ray’s lap.

  “No,” she wailed. “Jake! The bad man’s got my brother!”

  Ray’s eyes snapped open. The scorching pain in his ankle drowned in fear. “Where’s the boy?”

  The high fives stopped.

  “You had him,” someone muttered.

  “No, I—”

  Ray grabbed a pair of binoculars off the rack behind him. The tiny stick figures far below lurched into a juddering clarity. The clearing teemed with armed legionnaires from the convoy of trucks that had just returned. Brennan, his body still rigid, was being tended to by medics. Seth and Nascimento were in each other’s faces, their yelled words unheard. A handful of legionnaires were holding Nascimento back.

  Off to one side, held by the scruff of his neck, was the boy. Jake was kicking vainly at the shins of the legionnaire towering over him: Orr. The stocky man stood immobile, his face fixed on the disappearing helicopter.

  14

  Alcazar

  The procession of jeeps and outriders bounced along the dusty road. The route led from the capital to the Settlement of Tear, Ray Franklin’s village. The hedges were beginning to bloom, spots of colour peeping out from the dusty green. As the sun filtered through the leaves, the shortening midmorning shadows of the vehicles flicked over potholes and ruts that seemed to be breeding.

  “Sloppy,” Chester said to her PR.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am?” the younger woman replied.

  “These roads are a disgrace. Have a memo sent that they need to be repaired. They’re to do it properly, not just with quick-drying cement.” Cement which she knew was designed with a very limited shelf life.

  “I’m not sure who to talk to, ma’am. I’m not sure there is a department to deal with the roads outside of the city.”

  “Contact the combat engineering corps. It’ll be good practice for them. We need these roads healthy if we are ever to use them for a full-scale military option.”

  The PR made a note on her screen. The lines around her eyes deepened.

  “What is it?” Chester asked.

  Their jeep hit a deep hole. The screen jumped out of Jann’s hands and bounced on the floor. Chester scooped it up and handed it back. Her fingertip brushed against one of Jann’s. It was only for a second but the hairs on the back of Chester’s neck prickled taut. “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s nothing, Field-Marshal,”

  “Call me Willa, we’re alone.”

  “Surely if it’s easier to get our army out of the country on new roads, it’s easier for our enemies to get in, too? Isn’t that an argument for leaving the roads as they are?”

  Chester smiled. “That it is, Jann, that it is. You should really stop by my apartment again. I think you have the makings of a fine Alcazar player. With practice, you may even be able to match the president.”

  Jann blushed. “Thank you, Willa. I think I’d like that. That reminds me.” She pulled out her phone. “I noticed the gas is almost empty in your kitchen. I need to order another canister.”

  “No need. I took care of it myself. It’s being delivered tonight. You shouldn’t be doing menial tasks like that.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Willa,” Jann added hurriedly, as if the word would bite her tongue on the way out. She gazed out of the window, shielding her eyes against the sun.

  Chester nestled back in her seat. Ahead of her vehicle, the outriders from her personal security team, the Praetorian Guard, slowed, weaving through the maze of cracks in the concrete.

  Jann could beat Bethina at Alcazar, Chester told herself. This wasn’t just what an ex had called pre-emptive pillow talk. She was above that, she reassured herself. It would take a hefty dose of beginner’s luck for Jann to win, and some short-sighted, near-suicid
al thinking on the president’s part, but anything was possible.

  The president had beaten Chester in four out of five games this morning. Chester had declined the offer of upping the stakes to a best-of-seven. She had known the VP was on his way, and, as she had pointed out to the president, four games out of seven was already a win.

  “Oh yes, silly me,” Bethina had answered, a twinkle in her eyes. “This is not like you, Willa. You’re normally much more tenacious. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re playing a longer game against me.”

  Chester had left, leaving vague comments in her wake about not falling for Beth’s own gamesmanship. The president was right, Chester was playing a long game, but not with Bethina.

  Chester’s teeth chattered against each other as the jeep bounced over a crack in the camber. A huge rotting building thrust out of the ground to her right. It was a disused pigsty, according to Jann. Under that was a long, low building. Its thatched roof was patchy and pale.

  “Is this where Ray Franklin grew up?”

  Jann consulted her notes. “No, this cottage belonged to his grandfather, Major Frederick ‘Rick’ Franklin.” She scrolled down the page. “The major was sent to the uranium mines after the Silk Revolution and not heard of since.”

  “I know what happened to Major Franklin. What of his wife? She seems largely absent in this story.”

  “Rick’s wife, Thryn Ap Svet, died during the Window Riots, five years before their grandson, Ray Franklin, was born. I believe since then the cottage has been uninhabited.”

  “So where did Ray grow up?”

  Jann pointed to the building next door. “The neighbour, a lady named Lenka Zemlicka, did a lot of the childcare. Rose Franklin was absent for long periods of Ray’s youth. Other than rumours she spent time in the Donian Mountains, we still have a dearth of information concerning Rose’s activities and whereabouts. I’m not sure how this happened.”

  “She refused to update her status feeds on her public profiles as required, and kept the use of her swipe card to a minimum. She paid in cash when that was still an option, and bartered for goods when it wasn’t. Rose Franklin has a reputation for being both persuasive and secretive. Qualities that are seen as admirable or mysterious in a man, but manipulative and suspicious in a woman.”

  Jann folded her arms, a frown crossing her face. “Rose Franklin should not have been allowed to behave like this. It sets a bad precedent. One law broken leads to an avalanche of illegality if not checked. That leads to ever more serious deterrents and increasing resentment, and more flouting of the law from people who cannot see their part in this. The cycle continues until something breaks.”

  “You mean revolution or rebellion?”

  “Either. Both. I apologise for speaking out of line.”

  Chester fancied she could see the hint of a pout under Jann’s frown. It looked out of place, but oddly fetching, perched atop Jann’s perfect uniform. “Control what you can, monitor what you can’t, Jann.”

  “Yes, Willa.” Spots of pink bloomed in Jann’s cheeks. “And is this smallholding where we can find Ray’s grandfather?” She swiped through the information on her screen, green letters scrolling across her face.

  “No. Ex-Sub-Corporal Stann Taille lives down the hill.” Chester felt a grin creeping across her face. “And he is about to get a new lease on life.”

  “I have his file prepared.” Jann held out the screen.

  Jann was proactive, resourceful, reliable. Chester had chosen her PA well. She pressed Jann’s hand down with a gentle touch of her finger. “No need. I know most of that file by heart now. Stann Taille received a medical discharge.” She recited the sentences she had been studying till late into the night as she sought a solution, or at least a distraction, to the VP. “Prior to the discharge, Sub-Corporal Taille could have been a poster boy for the army. A devoted father to a son that later signed up, Stann captained the army bodyball team, was regimental boxing champion and a first-class sniper. Then he lost half a hand and half a leg.”

  “And his son?”

  “Sergeant Donarth Taille left Rose Franklin while she was pregnant with Ray. He was later shot for being a deserter.”

  “It seems out of character from everything else in his records.” Jann’s voice faltered as she studied the text.

  “People are not always predictable, Jann. Emotional extremes like war bring out the best in the worst of us and the worst in the best of us. Life is harsh,” Chester said, not unkindly. “It owes you nothing other than your own death. Soldiers tread that line more lightly than others. Stann Taille was a good soldier, efficient, dedicated and fiercely loyal, but that doesn’t guarantee a happy ending. Sergeant Donarth Taille’s death, however, could be useful leverage.”

  She tapped on the dividing glass between her and the driver. “Wait for me outside the village. I don’t think we need to scare the locals.”

  “I think they’re used to army vehicles out here, Willa.”

  The woman’s use of her name was growing with confidence, Chester noted.

  Jann tapped the screen. “The records show the recruitment trucks have been to this village more than any other of the Settlements. Their visits dropped off sharply around twelve years ago. I’m not sure why.”

  Because that’s when Ray Franklin signed up, Chester thought, a pawn in Professor Lind’s experiment and the government’s games.

  Jann unbuckled her safety harness and passed Chester her cap. ”Maybe that’s why the roads are so bad, because of the army trucks.”

  “Very good, Jann, very good. Please consider my previous offer seriously. It would be a delight to teach you the intricacies of Alcazar.” Her eyes drifted down to her PR’s legs, sheathed in green trousers and moulded leather boots. “Your raw potential is promising.”

  The rap of knuckles on his door rattled around the bare cottage walls. Stann Taille flicked the TV off (it was an old cathode ray one that somehow still worked), slipped the battered medal he had been polishing into his pocket, and struggled upright. The cottage he had lived in since his discharge from the army hadn’t changed much. The furniture was the same, albeit with more duct tape and nails. The floorboards still creaked, the chimney leaked smoke in the same places, and the camera the army had installed remained high on the wall above the mantelpiece.

  The camera was hidden behind a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, the red light above the lens that had once been on permanently had gone dark a long time ago. He’d phoned the military to point it out. After being clicked from one automated response to another, each one of which valued his time and patience (which Stann had no doubt about, given the call was charged by the second), he’d got through to a real human. Stann wondered if that numpty could have spelt his own mother’s name. He’d hung up. If the camera was important, they’d come fix it.

  “Not the camera,” he muttered. “If I was important, they’d have come fix it.” The door shuddered on its hinges again. “OK, OK, I’m coming.”

  He picked up his crutch, the wooden handgrip worn smooth, and limped to the door. Stann stopped dead in his tracks. His surprise, for once, won over the cynicism of a jaded old man.

  A gaggle of children was hanging off the wolfbark tree towering over the village green. Smartly pressed legionnaires watched them with stern eyes, daring the giggling kids to throw whatever it was they had secreted into their pockets and palms. A double file of motorbikes stood on the main road, each an exact distance from the next. That was dumb. If your planning (and your parking) was that predictable, you made your enemies’ job easier. Framed by this picture were two women on his porch. Each was more immaculately presented than the other.

  The younger one spoke: “Sub-Corporal, retired, Stann Taille, may I present . . .”

  “General Chester. I know who she is, lady.” Stann coughed, making no attempt to hide the bubbling, hacking noise deep in his chest. His momentary surprise abated, his cynicism was reasserting itself.

  “Field-Marshal Chester,”
the young woman corrected him.

  Behind the women, a man with a mohican was trying to outstare a pair of legionnaires. Stann sucked on his teeth. “You finally made field-marshal? Congratulations, I guess. I’d salute,” Stann added, “but I’ve always thought it crass when those not in the military use customs they have no right to.”

  Chester poked the skeleton of an old armchair with her boot. The crumpled, dishevelled thing next to the front door was more rusted springs than anything else. “An interesting object,” she said by way of greeting.

  “A reminder of an ex-friend’s cowardice.”

  Chester nodded. “I agree with your views on the salute, Sub-Corporal, but you were in the army. Your situation is different.”

  Stann laughed. It set off a village dog who barked at one of Chester’s Praetorian Guard. The legionnaire ignored it, suspicious eyes fixed on the children rustling amongst the tree’s leaves.

  “Was, Field-Marshal. I was in the military. No more. You lot saw to that.” He shifted his weight into a more comfortable position. “What do you all want? Your recruitment trucks don’t come round here much anymore. We don’t have many young kids left, you see. Or are you so short of legionnaires you want to recruit a crippled vet?” He held up the remains of his left hand, the ring and little fingers nothing more than shiny stumps that ended at the knuckles.

  “I understand your frustrations, Sub-Corporal Taille.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” Stann snorted. “I see all the hearts-and-minds crap that was leaking into the army when I was serving is still alive and kicking.”

  The PA’s eyes narrowed. Stann could hear the reproach, the words demanding respect, being lined up in her mouth.

  Screw her. Screw them all. He’d played their game. He’d played Rick Franklin’s game, too. While that man had cowered behind an armchair, his colleagues were slaughtered because of a mistake Franklin had made. Stann Taille had lost a lot more than just lumps of his body that day. He’d lost a friend and a future. A family. Chester’s eyes were impassive. Stann’s fingers closed around the medal in his pocket. Best not get too cocky with this one. “So, Field-Marshal, you come to apologise?” Stann asked in a more conciliatory tone.