by T. C. Edge
Fresh refugees continue to come, now only to pass through the gate and into the Deadlands. Huge convoys of cars and trucks and old buses gather, ready to make the long journey to the mountain. I imagine they're happy to do so, to flee as far from the fighting as possible, even into lands they don't know and have been taught their entire lives to fear.
Banishment, once considered the most extreme punishment of all, is now actively sought out by the masses. Willingly, they trek out into the endless desert and the unknown, leaving behind those who would fight for freedom.
I go to my brother and sister, and urge them to leave as well. They tell me that Drake has already pressed for the same result.
“We're not leaving you, baby sister,” says Cassie. “We're not going anywhere.”
I look at Carson, and his eyes show steel.
“I'm going to fight, when it comes to it,” he says.
“And I want to help where I can,” says Cassie, always a gentle soul. “I've started helping in the field hospital. They need me.”
I can see there will be no persuading them. Both have lost their partners already. Both want to do their part, however small, in seeking revenge.
And I know, deep down, that that's their right. They have just as much cause as anyone to be here. Just as much reason to stay and fight for their own freedom, for their remaining loved ones, for what they believe in.
Jackson's family do the same. His three brothers, two older, one younger, are all capable of wielding weapons, all born leaders. Even the youngest, not yet fifteen years old, is prepared to die. I look around and see other kids who'd do the same, some several years younger than even me. And I wonder...how has it come to this?
Soon, as the refugees unable to contribute are sent out into the Deadlands, the camp begins to take on a more professional feel. Most remaining are those able to fight, those able to help in some way. Those who are too young or too old or simply too afraid to offer any aid in the cause are stripped away, sent to safety. Those now coming through the gates from all over the mainland, are ushered right through and into the endless desert.
No chances can be taken any more. There can be no repeat of the raid on the military base, of the ruthless attack that killed a hundred innocent people. The attack that killed my friend.
People are still scanned as they come, still registered. But now, they're all moved on, the camp becoming nothing but a stop off point for their onward journey. Only those who say they can fight, who bring their own weapons with them, are retained and added to the army. But now, all new entrants are sent to the camps way back in the Deadlands, out where they can be monitored more closely.
The Generals, in seems, are caught in two minds, unable to turn down the offer of more troops, and yet afraid that some of them may have been sent inside by Eden. A greater vigilance results, more sets of keen eyes sent to watch from afar, and within. Our own spies, sent into the midst of the reserve forces, go armed with a single directive: flush out any moles, cleanse our army of their foul presence.
That night, two following the attack, I once more hear a voice calling from inside my new quarters in the wall. I pull out the communication device that Ajax gave me, now constantly secured within the most reliable pocket in my jacket, and answer quickly as he calls my name.
“Yes, Ajax, I read you.”
It's once again late, Athena sleeping nearby. This time, however, I climb from my bed and creep out into the corridor.
“How are you?” he asks. “I know about the attack.”
“I'm OK,” I tell him. “I lost a friend.”
“I'm sorry.” I hear a genuine tone of sorrow in his voice. “I hope you're taking more precautions so it doesn't happen again?”
I quickly update him on the extra steps that we've taken.
“Good, that's smart. I didn't call about the attack though...”
I allow a period of silence until he speaks again.
“Things have reached a stalemate,” he tells me, as if I don't already know. “Knight is sending someone out there to negotiate.”
“Who?” I ask.
“I'm not sure. As I told you before, he's keeping his cards close to his chest. Expect to see a transport arrive some time tomorrow morning. Watch the skies.”
“OK, I will,” I say.
“Good. I'll speak to you soon.”
Before he clicks off the communicator, I stop him with a simple question.
“Ajax...”
“Yes, Cyra?”
“Can...can we win this thing?”
Another short period of silence follows. I can sense the doubt on the other end of the line, see him sitting in that small room of his at the back of the Grid in Eden, right at the heart of the enemy fortress.
Eventually, he speaks, his words walking the tightrope between doubt and belief.
“Yes,” he says. “We can win this thing.” I hear him take a breath, and then he speaks again. “We will win this thing, Cyra. We have no choice.”
And with that, he clicks off after a short delay, leaving me standing in silence in the middle of the corridor.
28 - Priscilla Graves
The following day, I wake early. Early enough to be able to rise up to the summit of the wall and watch the sun rise. I look over the distant lands stretching away towards the far coastline, and imagine what life must be like back in Agricola, and across the other regions, for those who remain.
From this height, I can see far, many miles across the mainland in one direction, and across the Deadlands in the other. On the mainland side, the military base remains, half destroyed now, but functioning once again. Around it, hundreds of tents and other structures have been erected, home to the forward rebel army. Watch towers and bunkers, spread around the perimeter, maintain a constant vigil, soldiers patrolling here and there to maintain order.
On the other side, the fields of tents are almost innumerable, stretching far and wide on a grander scale over the scorched earth. Our reserve forces from Eden, many thousands strong, have been joined by the thousands of others who have come from the regions, refugees turned soldiers, freedom fighters, rebels. Many camps scatter the earth, the forces spread into their component parts. And among them, thousands of others, unable to fight, wait for their chance to begin their long journey to Petram.
Drake, doing this morning rounds, discovers me up on the wall as the sun creeps higher. He takes a quiet moment with me, both of us looking over the mainland, the sky a beautiful red and orange.
“You miss it, don't you?” he asks. “Home...”
I nod.
“So do I. When this is all done, we'll find a new one. We'll make it just as we want it to be.”
I look up at him. He smiles down at me.
“Promise?”
He folds me up into a warm hug.
“I promise.”
He turns to leave, so much demanding his attention.
“Dad...”
He turns back.
“Knight is sending someone to negotiate today,” I say.
“Ajax told you?”
I nod.
“Maybe it's time to make a deal,” I mumble, looking down at the ruins of the military base. “Others are only going to die.”
“We've come a long way, Cyra. Now isn't the time to give in.” He takes a step towards me. “He's sending someone to negotiate because he's losing control. This is a good sign.”
I guess, perhaps, he's right. You only negotiate when you want something, or you have something to lose. We've done far more than he can have expected. All the signs point to a man who's worried about what the future – his future – might hold.
I watch the skies, as Ajax told me to do, having delivered the message to my father. He'll take it on to the Generals and do the rest, and any incoming ship will be communicated with without hostility.
Before I spy the shape of any aircraft appearing on the big blue sky, Drake comes up to me once again, a couple of hours after having left.
<
br /> “There's a ship coming,” he tells me. “It's them. We're moving down into no man's land, neutral ground. It's time, Cyra.”
I go down with him, and we join the two Generals and Troy at the base of the wall. Two jeeps, fitted with drivers, sit with chugging engines, preparing to drive us out for the meeting. Above, the main guns on the wall position themselves, ready to fire if required, able to cover us from afar. And behind the jeeps, a small force of soldiers follow in a truck, led by Markus and Jackson.
We begin driving out, several miles from the wall. Soon, the sight of the aircraft greets us, descending to the ground. The vehicles are parked a short distance away, and I step out with the Generals, Drake, and Troy. Together, we walk forward, leaving the unit of soldiers behind.
From the plane, several shapes emerge. First, a small contingent of guards, dressed in the garb of the Eden soldiers. Then, two men, dressed in black. Watchers. They all stop at the base of the short ramp leading down from the aircraft. Then, a final person emerges, wrapped in fine regalia, a face I'd hoped never to see again.
Priscilla Graves, Theo's mother and high member of the Council of Eden, steps onto the barren earth in high heels, draping a long cloak of white and black behind her. The two Watchers march by her sides, the soldiers following behind as we all close in on one another.
I feel my blood boiling just looking at her, memories of Theo flooding my mind. A woman so cold, so callous, she could sit there and watch as her son was sentenced to be executed. Dress up for the occasion in her finest clothes, listen to the crowd taunt and insult her only child, see them hurl rotten fruit and vegetables at him in the moments before he was due to die.
I notice Drake's eyes dropping to me as we walk forwards.
“Perhaps you should stay back,” he says quietly.
I shake my head, and march on a little quicker. Soon, we're close enough for General Richter to speak and be heard.
“Councillor Graves, a pleasure to meet you,” he starts.
The contempt in his voice isn't lost on me. It brings the lightest curl of a smile to my lips.
“I understand this is a situation fraught with tension, but your armed guard is a little much. We have ordered our own guard to stand back. I suggest you do the same.”
Priscilla considers the request for a moment, and then nods to one of the Watchers at her side. He turns around and issues the command. The trailing soldiers make their way back towards the ship. The Watchers remain.
“Excellent,” says General Richter. “I do prefer negotiations without the threat of being shot.”
Priscilla offers a faint laugh. I note that her eyes take in those ahead of her, all except me. Not once does she look at me, as she didn't her own son when he was tied up to that post in the middle of the Eden square. My eyes, however, look nowhere else but her crinkled, hateful visage.
“In case you don't know,” continues the General, “I am General Richter. To my left is General Sharpe, and to his left, Tro...”
“I know who you all are, General Richter,” she says, her voice cutting into my head. “Shall we dispense with the introductions. I don't care to spend more time than I have to out here.”
“As you wish, Councillor. Please, tell us why you're here.”
“I am here at the behest of High Chancellor Augustus Knight,” she says. I get the impression that she's been rehearsing. “As you are all aware, the mainland regions have begun to shut down due to the civil anarchy that you have incited. Production everywhere has slowed or even ceased. This isn't a help to anyone.”
I hear Troy laughing over to the far left.
“I'm sorry, Councillor, but the real loser here is you and your city. You make nothing over on that metal island of yours. You rely on the mainland for everything...”
“I don't deny it,” says Priscilla. “That is the way our world functions. But I am talking of the common people here, the people all over the regions. They're dying, and for what? If the production of food, in particular, halts, then everyone will suffer...”
One more, Troy cuts her off.
“Well, speaking as someone from the Deadlands, I can tell you right now that we're able to sustain ourselves quite well over there. It's your people who are suffering, not ours.”
“But aren't all of these people your people too,” counters Priscilla. “Isn't that the whole point of this rebellion of yours. To free the people of the mainland from our supposed oppression? Truly, I believe that all you're doing is making things worse...”
“You have to make things worse, sometimes, to make them better,” says General Sharpe, joining the conversation. “We will build a more equitable world from the ashes of this one. We will do all it takes to make that happen.”
General Richter holds up his hand to calm our tongues. A short silence drops before he speaks.
“Tell us, Councillor, what is it exactly that Knight wants?”
“Peace,” she says. “The High Chancellor only wishes to work out a truce between us, perhaps join together. We have much of the same goals...”
“A truce,” comes Drake's voice, rising angrily from his throat. “Only two nights ago several of your people killed a hundred innocent men, women, and children inside our camp. They did it all in an attempt to murder my own daughter...”
For the first time, the mention of me brings Priscilla's eyes to mine. They flash on me for a second, and in that second, I see a collection of emotions. I see regret. I see guilt. I see pain.
They turn quickly back to my father, and the rehearsed arrogance returns.
“I have no say in military movements,” she says.
“I know that,” says Drake loudly, “but I'm sure your Chancellor is directing things from that metal fortress of his. We will not trust a man who would order such a wanton attack, a man whose soldiers would murder anyone attempting to wriggle free of his iron grip. Tell me, Councillor, what did you say to him when he sentenced your son to die? Did you try to talk him out of it, or have you been brainwashed just like everyone else?”
Priscilla's face darkens, her eyes turning away. Again, they flash on me. Again, I see pain.
“Let's cool our tongues,” says General Richter. “We will get nowhere with personal slurs.”
Drake nods in apology, but not to Priscilla Graves.
“I'm sorry, General. However, my point stands. Nothing Knight says can be trusted. The man will not stop until we are all dust. He has nothing to give us that we cannot take ourselves.”
I see General Sharpe and Troy nodding. Only General Richter, more level headed than the rest, stands motionless.
“If this is what you think,” says Priscilla, “then I seem to have wasted my time coming here.” Her voice falters a little now, my father's attack bringing down her defences. “I will deliver your thoughts to the High Chancellor.”
Her eyes move to General Richter, who seems to concede that there's little more for us to say. He nods, and the group of men to my left all prepare to turn. I look along the line of them and see faces of defiance on one and all. Then I turn back to Priscilla, and see her own eyes fixed to mine.
“Might I have a word in private?” she asks, her voice suddenly more soft.
I stare back at her for a moment, and then nod silently.
Drake touches my arm.
“We'll be waiting at the cars,” he says.
The men depart, and so do Priscilla's two Watcher guards. Now, it's just us, standing face to face on this desolate, barren stretch of land where she looks so utterly out of place.
I still remain silent, waiting for her to speak. She offers the tiniest smile, the mask she wore in front of the others slipping.
“I wanted to ask you, Cyra...” Her voice falters. She swallows hard. “How...how did Theo die?”
I see in her eyes now a clearer picture of pain. The pain of someone who's lost their son, unable to mourn him in a world where he was branded a traitor. Unable to grieve for fear of what Knight might do.
&
nbsp; But now, here, just the two of us alone, I see the woman beneath the finery and make up. A woman stripped bear, stricken by the loss of her boy.
The part of me that hates her begins to fade, and in place of that hate grows a great sorrow. I look at her now for the first time with pity, and my words come out, soft and quiet, but with pride for the boy we both loved.
“He died a hero,” I say. “He died giving his life for someone else.”
I see a tear building in her eye, spilling down her cheek.
“A hero...” she whispers, staring down. Then her head rises and she looks at me. “He loved you,” she says. “And now...now I understand why.”
She steps towards me, and her hand reaches into a pocket. It comes out holding a small square piece of white card. She lays it into my palm and, on the other side, I see Theo's face smiling up at me.
“For you,” she says. “I didn't think you'd have a picture of him.”
I look at his face and feel my own eyes wetting.
“Thank you, Priscilla,” I say.
And when I look up at her, I see a real smile, small but noticeable, on her face. She nods slowly at me, in silence, before taking a step back, then two, and finally turning and walking away.
29 - Death from Within
I watch Priscilla go, stepping through the dirt, climbing back up into her ship. As she does, she looks over at me once more, before disappearing with the rest of her cohort. The plane rises quietly, blue fire pouring from the base, before suddenly shooting off into the sky, fading into the glare of the sun.
I turn, and look back, and hear a few rushed voices reach my ears. Away by the cars, a commotion appears to have broken out. I see Drake waving me back. I begin running to join them, the picture of Theo gripped between my fingers.
“What's going on?” I ask hurriedly as I reach him, slipping the picture into a pocket.
Drake's face is stark, as are the faces of the others.
“There's news from Petram, from Stein. He's just arrived back at the base...”