“I fear it will only make things worse.”
“We’ll speak again after I’ve offered Quebec a new start. And I hope you will help me build the city that my father refused to restore.”
◄ ►
Cap-Rouge never changed. Every day, the fisherfolk went out with the tide and they returned to the village with the tide, bringing back enough fish to feed their families, and a few more to sell to any taker waiting on the beach.
Visitors made their way by boat from villages farther west to buy their catch. Sometimes, they stayed after roasting their purchases on a driftwood-fed fire. When night fell, they found shelter in the inns and taverns standing on the tip of the island.
Through the gloom and noise of the common room slinked less savoury visitors. Strangers whose clothes smelled of the forest. Who carried blunderbusses and single-shot pistols. Who wandered in with bows and arrows. Who didn’t answer many questions, but paid their fare with good copper coins, occasionally with slivers of silver or gold.
Darrick was drinking alone at a table in a corner of the biggest inn on the strand. He was sitting so as to display clearly the sword by his side. Nobody would bother an ironbearer.
Except the man he was waiting for. Who only showed up after nightfall, ordering a beer at the counter before turning around to scan discreetly the rest of the room. The man’s disguise was good. The newcomer looked like an Algonquin farmer from the Upper Laurentides, one of those who earned the equivalent of a year’s income by joining a brigade of western Voyageurs from time to time. Yet, the venison bag slung over his shoulder sported a bit of tartan that could pass as a mere patch but wasn’t, of course.
Darrick called him over, pointing to the empty chair in front of him. The man circled in.
“Ségole Portelance.”
“Philippe Taillefer,” Darrick answered.
Passwords exchanged, they hugged like old friends meeting again after a long separation, though somewhat awkwardly, each one wondering if the other was going to stab him in the back.
“You’ve come a long way?”
“You said it, ironbearer! A Voyageur isn’t afraid to voyage, and I’ve paddled all the rivers between here and Saskatchewan.”
“I didn’t think there were any left.”
“No, they still flow in the spring when the snow melts. Nothing better to ship boatloads all the way to Lake Superior or Hudson Bay. But I’ve also escorted my share of caravans crossing the steppes in high summer.”
Escorted or attacked? Darrick reminded himself to keep in mind who he was dealing with.
“But you’re retired now, right?”
“Soon enough, I hope,” the man said without smiling.
His black hair was streaked with grey, but there was no sign in the man’s face of Lacombe’s beaten-down weariness. Darrick nodded, as if he were contemplating old age and its pastimes.
“Some men, when they stop working, they no longer know what to do with themselves.”
“Speak for yourself, ironbearer! Me, I think I’ll take up fishing.”
“It’s pleasant enough, if the sea is kind and the fish plentiful.”
“You just need to know the good spots, that’s all. What do you think? Any likely ones around here?”
“I’d advise trying the waters near Port-Sillery. Tomorrow, you’ll be completely alone.”
“If you say so… Maybe I’ll go bother the fish with some friends of mine. What do you think I could get for my catch?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Nothing less.”
His reply snapped like a whip-crack, setting Darrick’s teeth on edge. The ironbearer held the man’s stare. If the man didn’t trust him, his whole plan would come to naught. The murderous light in the Voyageur’s eyes met Darrick’s self-confident gaze until the older man yielded.
The deal was done. They revived the conversation by broaching less perilous topics, but the man called Ségole grew uneasy when a group of the governor’s guards took over a nearby table. Darrick too had strained to appear unconcerned, telling himself the guards did not seem to be on the lookout for anything but an evening meal, even assuming that they’d been provided with a reliable description of their quarry.
When the Voyageur took his leave, Darrick found himself alone. He was giving in to the pleasant stupor induced by a good meal, a couple of pints, and his exertions atop a stolen bicycle from one end of the island to another. Had he run himself ragged just to elude pursuers?
Or had he run so hard because he was afraid of enjoying his return too well? He could still give up. The fate of Quebec’s population did not seem so harsh. He was free to head back to France, or to move to Montreal if he wished to live out his days in more familiar surroundings. He would still dream of building a better world, and that world would retain the unsullied perfection of dreams never put to the test of reality.
At the other table, the governor’s guards were picking over the scraps of their meals when the serving girl stopped by to ask them to pay up. The commanding officer snickered.
“What’s wrong with your eyes, girl?”
“I don’t believe we are in the business of offering free meals, sirs. Do you want me to speak to my boss?”
“You should know better, little goose! If you really want to collect, my pretty one, you’ll be paid in kind, on this very table.”
“Wham-bang, right between the legs!” one of the guards threw in.
“She doesn’t get it. It’s an honour to serve a Dome guard.”
“An honour without price!” they chorused before laughing uproariously.
Nobody else laughed. Silence spread from one table to the next, conversations dying and gazes swivelling to take in the scene. Darrick straightened, sobering as he tightened his hand on the sword’s grip. But there were five of them, and they weren’t drunk enough to improve the odds. Before he could talk himself into it, the innkeeper burst from the kitchen, grabbed the serving girl by the shoulder, propelled her behind him and bowed before the officer.
“Forgive me, sirs, she didn’t know. Trust me, we appreciate the honour you do us by gracing our establishment. May I offer you another pitcher of our best Montebello red?”
“Do so,” the officer said. “But next time…” He didn’t finish, so certain of his authority that he did not feel the need to bellow or threaten. Moments later, guests began to settle their account and leave. Like them, Darrick tipped generously, even though it wouldn’t undo the girl’s humiliation. She looked young. It was probably her first time working in such a place and she would learn. Yet, he hated thinking that she would grow to find official thuggishness perfectly normal.
◄ ►
The automobile rolled up to the entrance of St. Macaire’s Palace a little after nine o’clock. Ministers, secretaries, clerks and petty clerks were already at work inside the wings overlooking the forecourt. The clickety-click of typewriters wafted through the windows thrown open to let in the springtime warmth. The main building rose between the two wings, housing the offices and apartments of the governor, as well as a connecting hall leading to another wing behind, used for state occasions, grand balls and official dinners.
The men guarding the entrance to the inner court stopped the vehicle. Half-burnt ethanol fumes emanated from the malfunctioning motor, thick enough to choke the guards who didn’t keep their distance. The luxurious vehicle’s only occupant was a liveried driver. When he was asked the purpose of his visit, he pointed to the coat of arms adorning the rear compartment’s doors.
“I work for Lord Odrigo de Lorette. He asked me to come get his mother, Lady Claudette de Bergerville. She had an appointment with the Minister of the Registry.”
“Very well, I’ll check,” the commanding officer said. “Meanwhile, please park that thing over here.”
His airy gesture did not quite hide his fascination with the motor car. He went back inside to check the log. His underlings watched with undisguised interest as the driver manoeuvred
the automobile by the windows of the guardroom. He set the parking brake and got out.
“If this is going to take long, can I go take a piss?”
A guard pointed him to the door leading to the basement. The others surrounded the parked vehicle, admiring the chrome inlays and the wood veneer. The ethanol fumes quickly dissipated, but they only got near enough to catch the sound of a faint ticking just before the car exploded.
◄ ►
St. Macaire’s Basilica rose on the highest part of the island of Quebec. Its dome was the focal point of the governor’s compound, a hodgepodge of buildings dating back to the Université Laval or to the first governor’s efforts to link the most defensible ones with rough-hewn additions.
His successors had concentrated on the main entrance, adding guardrooms and sentry boxes, while lodging most of the guard company in a dormitory one floor above. When the high explosives hidden in every available nook of the automobile detonated, the blast shattered the nearest wall. The upper floors collapsed, burying the guardrooms and the people inside under the debris. The shock wave blew in the windows overlooking the courtyard, shooting glass shards and wood splinters into the offices. The sheer thickness of the outer wall saved it from toppling, but it was left in no shape to withstand an immediate assault.
Yet, once silence fell, quickly filled with the moans and crying of the wounded, no attack followed. The men set to clearing the debris did not stop to question the logic behind the bombing.
At the other end of the compound, Darrick heard the explosion and he muttered a quick prayer for Naoufal’s safety. Had he been able to find shelter in a basement that was deep enough? Would he manage to join the rescuers, mix in, and escape?
The ironbearer easily imagined the destruction, the deaths, and the injuries he’d just caused. He was certain that criminals and thugs had died. He did not doubt that he had also killed innocents. But his dream of a better city counted for more.
He climbed the steps of the entrance to the basilica without stopping.
“Who goes there?” a guard asked, bursting out of his sentry box with a halberd held upright.
“Faucher de Limoilou!”
“Wh… what?”
Darrick whipped out his sword, pushed aside the halberd lowered too late and thrust forcefully into the chest of the man still trying to figure out which of the governor’s sons he had in front of him.
Thanks to his father’s procreative efforts, he had once been able to pass unnoticed as one son of many. Granger de Limoilou had complicated everybody’s life by taking several wives and siring even more children. As he marched down the nave, Darrick shouted into the hollowness within what he’d sworn to tell his father.
Who am I? No, not the eldest assassinated by the second one. And, no, not the second one you executed under the windows of your office in Clarendon Castle, shot for all to see. And not the idiot you imprisoned for life in the asylum of Upper Beauport. And, no, not the fifth, the designated heir as long as he keeps his mouth shut. Or the sixth, born last year…
The nave was deserted. Weekdays, the faithful were scarce, especially if no mass was scheduled. Yet, sword in hand, Darrick almost wished for the irruption of a squad of the governor’s guards. While most ironbearers carried a sword as a token of their rank and wealth, Darrick had learned to use his in France. And he wanted to face his enemies. To fight them.
The third one! I’m the third one, Father. Joseph Darrick Faucher de Limoilou. The banished one!
But there was nobody to hear and the echo of his footsteps was the only other sound under the vaulting. The diversion had worked. All the other guards had left the basilica to lend a hand to the rescue efforts.
A sudden rumble warned him to step aside and he gave way to a Compagnie Phénix-France dray pulled by four horses in a lather, steaming from the climb up the ramp laid over the stairs of the entrance. Standing at the front of the dray, Carolin tugged on the reins to hear Darrick’s orders.
“Keep going. The doors of the dome are straight ahead. I’ll meet you there.” Darrick returned to the front of the basilica. Two of his men were disassembling the wooden ramp to turn it into a barricade that would allow them to defend the entrance. He found nothing in the sentry box, but he broke down the door of the guardroom and seized all the key rings.
At the far end of the nave, a pair of monumental doors separated it from the inside of the dome. The choir. The holy of holies. Normally, priests were the only ones to enter the inner sanctum. On feast days, the doors were opened halfway to let the faithful glimpse their bishop saying Mass before the altar holding the relics of St. Macaire.
Darrick’s heart beat faster as he tried a dozen keys before finding the right one. The doors were solid steel, but so well hung that he needed only to push them with the flat of one hand to start them swinging on their hinges.
Followed by Carolin, he slipped inside, noting the extraordinary thickness of the walls. He looked up immediately to see the top of the cupola, about 100 metres up.
“Here we are,” he whispered.
“At last.”
His companion stared at the floor between them.
“So, everything is underneath,” he said, almost disbelieving.
“Everything,” Darrick confirmed. “The island’s only nuclear reactor.”
A well-kept secret. The power plant’s construction dated back to the period just before the dark years, when physicists and engineers at Université Laval needed an experimental reactor to play with. Experimental in the sense that it did not use heavy water like most other Canadian reactors. Yet, designed for power levels that hinted at something more than a test-bed for new reactor designs.
Likewise, transforming the cooling tower into a cathedral choir could not have happened without an ulterior motive. In the short term, it probably owed a lot to the era’s deep-seated mistrust of nuclear power, and the builders’ lack of resources. They might have sought the material help of a revived Catholic church wishing to dedicate a basilica to the dead of the Dark Age.
Carolin had come across a forgotten trove of the university’s archives about the project during his studies. A common friend had provided Darrick’s mailing address in France, since the young man wanted to find out if the governor’s family knew. Darrick didn’t, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that his father was in on the secret.
Carolin hadn’t been able to determine if the plant had ever served. The first governor could have used an additional source of electricity to make up for the deficiencies of the wind farms… but hiding the condensation plume of a running power plant would have been no easy task, unless it operated at night or during storms and foggy days.
“Let’s get to work,” Darrick said. “If we’re lucky, we’ve got until the next changing of the guard. And maybe the next one if we manage to deal with the new shift.”
Three women and 22 men were now inside the basilica. Half of the men, and all of the women, were students and friends of Carolin. They had never set foot inside a nuclear power plant, but Darrick had supplied them with every document he’d been able to get his hands on in France. He was also providing them with the enriched uranium of the Compagnie Phénix-France, in the form of rods locked inside wooden chests over four metres long… He hoped it would be enough to awaken the sleeping reactor.
The others had just volunteered to fight. Each of them had a reason for hating the governor, Granger de Limoilou, and each had chosen to trust his son. They had come armed for war – with old hunting guns, cutlasses, and sometimes with nothing more than knives or clubs.
Before he left to check on the basilica’s defences, Darrick pulled Carolin aside.
“First impressions?”
“I won’t promise anything until I’ve seen the crypt, but it’s looking good. Everything is clean and well maintained. I’ve found where the access panels are cut into the floor and the grooves are practically dust-free. I even spotted some traces of oil near the base of
the altar, still wet, as if somebody lubricated gears or something mechanical not so long ago. And look at the air vents up there. Not one is actually blocked by the hanging tapestries.”
“I’ll leave you the keys. Do you need anything else?”
“Luck. According to specs, the reactor needed 50 tonnes of enriched uranium to work as designed. We only have five.”
“But you told me there was probably still some fuel left.”
“We’ll soon find out if I was right.”
Darrick mastered the urge to strangle him on the spot. He didn’t feel like joking.
Uranium’s radioactivity did not last forever. After more than a century, it would have gone down by a lot… And that wasn’t all. In an operating reactor, the fuel was replaced gradually, as it became poisoned with reaction products. Darrick had brought new fuel bundles to replace some of the old ones – if Carolin managed to identify the ones most in need of replacement.
“If there’s nothing else, we’re screwed.”
“Then again, maybe I’ll just be able to restart the reactor with a tenth of the required supply. With a huge helping of luck.”
“We will have all the luck we need,” Darrick spat. “Because it’s our turn to have some.”
Darrick toured the basilica, the mere tip of a gigantic underground edifice. Beneath the nave’s floor, turbines and generators slept. The huge cylindrical dome combined the roles of a cooling tower and a containment enclosure for the reactor core below the altar. For his men, the basilica would be harder to defend than for the governor’s guards. Besides the main entrance, several doors led to the main compound. Darrick assigned two men to watch each way in. The rest would guard the main doors. He wondered again if he should have recruited a few more sympathizers, but a small army tramping across the island would have been too conspicuous.
The hours went by uneventfully, as if the basilica had been utterly forgotten by the governor’s men. Carolin and his team burrowed into the building’s depths. Darrick only went down once below the altar. The pumps and conduits were clean enough to keep him hoping. In spite of its age, the plant might still be operational.
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