Culture Shock

by Christopher Nuttall

  Judith snorted. “Sacrificing himself?”

  “I have a poor reputation,” Hannah reminded her. “Joel might be a Steward, with every prospect of becoming an Elder, but people would still talk. Joel would be giving up his chance to find an unquestionable wife ...”

  She shook her head, slowly. “And he’s always been a strict bastard,” she added. “He was always ranting and raving about the need to fight back ... I think it broke his mind.”

  “And so he beat you,” Judith said. Nothing justified that sort of treatment, nothing at all. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to marry him.”

  “Everyone thought it would be a good match,” Hannah said. “Everyone except me. They kept asking when we were going to marry, when we were going to start churning out children ...”

  She sighed. “But it wasn’t possible,” she added. “I couldn't have married him.”

  Judith frowned. She wouldn't have wanted to marry anyone, male or female, who exhibited the petulant and violent behaviour Hannah had described. And yet, there was something in Hannah’s voice that suggested there was something else at stake.

  “Why ...?”

  Hannah looked down at the bed. “I went to school on Tarsus,” she said. “John hated it - so did Joel. I loved it. Being there ... it was a chance to be someone else. And there was a boy there, a boy I liked. John never knew, I think. We were kissing and cuddling one day and then it went further.”

  “You had sex with him,” Judith said, flatly.

  “Yes,” Hannah said. “It wasn’t that good. He just ... he just went in and out ... I didn't feel much of anything. If there hadn't been a little blood afterwards ...”

  She shook her head. “I let him do it,” she added. “But now ... I am not a virgin. Joel would have been furious, if he'd discovered that after the wedding.”

  “What a dickhead,” Judith said. She honestly couldn't say that her first time had been any good - young men had absolutely no technique - but it had got better. And while she preferred women, she had to admit there was something to passionate sex with a man who knew what he was doing. “Why didn't you tell your mother ...?”

  Hannah gave her a look that suggested, very clearly, that Judith had said something utterly stupid. “My mother would have killed me,” she said. “And my stepfather ... he would have been furious. He would have kicked us all out of the commune.”

  “That doesn't sound so bad,” Judith said.

  “My mother wouldn't have been able to live outside,” Hannah said. “And now ...”

  She nodded towards the television. “I don't know what’s happening to her,” she added. “Or anyone.”

  Judith looked up as the door opened. A grim-faced man wearing a police uniform peered into the room. Hannah flinched, then relaxed - slightly. The police had talked to her before, when she’d been admitted, but Judith suspected she hadn't found it a very pleasant experience. She’d betrayed her commune, after all.

  “Miss Hannah,” the policeman said. “We need to talk to you.”

  Hannah nodded. “Can Judith stay here?”

  The policeman looked at Judith for a moment, then nodded. “I need to ask you about the commune,” he said. “And I need complete answers.”

  Hannah sighed. “I’ll do my best,” she promised.

  ***

  “Joel was plotting trouble, right from the start,” John said. The two policemen were taking careful notes. “He purchased weapons from a crewman on the ship and taught us how to use them.”

  Captain Sidney looked thoughtful. “Who taught him how to use them?”

  “The crewman, I assume,” John said. “None of us had any experience with weapons on Tarsus.”

  “But Joel might have obtained training from someone else,” Sidney said. “Is that possible?”

  John shrugged. “I don’t think anyone had any firearms on Tarsus,” he said. “Joel might have obtained a few from somewhere, but I don’t think his father would have let him. None of the Elders were interested in resistance.”

  Sidney nodded. “And now?”

  “I think Joel is in control,” John said. “He had several dozen men under his direct control, sir, and dozens more who could be relied upon. I don’t think the Elders ever knew about it.”

  “I see,” Sidney said. “How is that possible?”

  Joel struggled to explain. “The Elders are the ones who issue orders, after careful contemplation,” he said. “The Stewards are the ones who actually carry out those orders, sir; there’s a working assumption that a Steward will become an Elder when a serving Elder dies in office. Joel was in a very good position to issue orders, orders he could claim came from the Elders, without being questioned. Very few people would refuse.”

  “So the Elders have effectively been removed from power,” Sidney mused. “Joel might have killed them.”

  “Joel wouldn't kill his father,” John said. He disliked - even hated - Joel, but he had to admit that the bastard loved his father. “Killing the Elders ... if he did and his followers found out, he would be lynched. We are raised to listen to the Elders.”

  “Joel obviously thinks otherwise,” Sidney said.

  He cleared his throat. “And the way he treated your sister ...”

  “Joel had never had an easy life,” John admitted. “He was penned up with the rest of us, forced to endure public schools ... he knew it was his destiny to marry Hannah ...”

  Sidney tapped the table. “Why are you making excuses for him?”

  John shook his head, slowly. Sidney was right. There were any number of excuses for Joel’s behaviour, but none of them justified what he’d done. Maybe he’d had a point, once upon a time; maybe he’d been right to insist that the Forsakers should stand up for themselves. But now the entire commune was on the brink of obliteration. Sidney hadn't pulled any punches when he’d pointed out that the commune was short on ammunition, short on manpower, short on any real understanding of the world around them. Joel could get a lot of people killed, if the fighting went on, but it could only have one ending.

  He overplayed his hand, he thought.

  “He has to be stopped,” he said, flatly.

  “True,” Sidney agreed. “How would you stop him?”

  John shuddered. He knew he didn't have the nerve to stand up to Joel. Even if he did ... Joel would beat hell out of him, then shoot whatever was left for desertion. Or betrayal. Or whatever charges made sense to his addled mind. Releasing the Elders might work, but Joel would have made damn sure they couldn't be rescued. Konrad and his fellows were trapped, somewhere within the giant estate. John didn't even know where to begin looking.

  “Joel is the problem,” he said. Joel hadn't encouraged anyone else to strive for the leadership role, as far as he knew. “If Joel is removed ... the others might lose their nerve and release the Elders.”

  “Smart,” Sidney said. His voice was so flat that John suspected he was being sarcastic. “And how do you propose removing him?”

  John hesitated. Sidney had already told him that the situation had stalemated, for the moment. The police couldn't storm the estate and Joel’s men couldn't come out. But that would change as everyone started to starve. Forsakers were used to going without food - Tarsus had sometimes cut off food deliveries, just to remind everyone who was boss - but water shortages would start to bite very quickly. And once women and children started to suffer ...

  Joel would try to keep them going, he thought. No one else would try.

  “You have to kill him,” he said.

  “Yes,” Sidney said. “How?”

  John considered a number of possible options. He could borrow a gun, walk back into the commune and shoot Joel in the head. But Joel would have him searched before facing him, surely. Or he could try to kill Joel with a knife .... no, that wouldn't work. Joel was stronger and nastier than him. He’d been quite happy to push John around when he’d had something Joel wanted.

  He wants Hannah, John thought. Joel would need Han
nah. He’d demanded her return as part of his list of impossible demands. Her return would prove he was in control of the situation. And if she is used as bait.

  He swallowed, hard. The idea might just work ...

  ... But if it failed, he was dead.

  And the entire commune dies too, he thought. There was no way to avoid it. Joel was leading them to destruction. My life ... or thousands of lives.

  He took a breath. “I’ve had an idea ...”

  ***

  “Shit,” Constable Smith muttered.

  Mike nodded in agreement as he parked the patrol car, then swung out of it, weapon at the ready. The emergency call hadn't lied. A body was lying on the ground, a pistol lying next to the dead man’s hand. Mike inched forward, wishing they’d had more time to practice combat tactics before the balloon had gone up, but no other threat materialised. The killers had been and gone a long time ago.

  He keyed his radio. “I confirm a single dead man,” he said. He looked up and down the body, searching for clues. “Cause of death appears to be a blow to the back of the head, inflicting major trauma on the skull. Clothing marks the man out as a Forsaker, probably a native rather than a refugee ...”

  The radio buzzed. “Are you sure?”

  Mike scowled. Night was falling and it was getting hard to see, but he still had no trouble in making out the fine clothes. It wasn't a real Forsaker outfit, not something that would be worn day in and day out. There was certainly no wear and tear. They looked more like traditional clothes that would normally be worn two or three days a year, then put back in the closet. And the wearer ...

  “I'm fairly sure,” he said, studying the pistol. Murders were rare in Lothian. Normally, a forensic team would be dispatched at once to sweep the area for clues. But now, the city was on edge. Half the population was either preparing for a fight or trying to get the hell out before it was too late. “He had a weapon” - he slipped his gloves on and picked it up, looking for the serial number - “number #4377SIW.”

  “It’s not listed in the database,” the dispatcher said. “Can you ID the victim?”

  Mike scowled, then hunted for the deceased’s wallet. “Adam Alanson,” he said, after a moment. “He apparently worked at the local bank.”

  “I’ll put a call out to them,” the dispatcher said. There was a pause. “Stay with the body until help arrives.”

  “Understood,” Mike said.

  He shook his head. Normally, a murder would be terribly exciting. Half the city’s police force would descend on the scene, hundreds of reporters on their heels. It would be the talk of the town. Now, with dozens of police and civilians dead, it was almost unremarkable. He wondered, absently, who had killed Adam Alanson and why.

  A banker, he thought. Bankers weren't very popular, but most people considered them a necessary evil. A banker with a handgun.

  He puzzled it over as another patrol car appeared. Adam Alanson was dressed in traditional clothes ... maybe someone had seen him as a refugee and attacked him. But why had he been carrying the firearm? If it was on the ground, had he been holding it when he’d been attacked? It wasn't as if he was in a legitimate businessmen’s social club or somewhere he might have reason to fear attack. Maybe he’d gone to meet a prostitute and everything had gone horribly wrong.

  “We have orders to take the body to hospital,” Constable Mathews said. Mike remembered he’d retired, two years after Mike had graduated from Lestrade. The government had called up retired policeman to help cope with the crisis, along with anyone with any form of military experience. “His killers may never be found.”

  Mike gritted his teeth. Murder was rare on Arthur’s Seat ... had been rare on Arthur’s Seat, before the refugees had arrived. Now ... he shuddered, feeling the firearm on his belt. They had definitely lost some of their innocence, whatever the outcome of the insurrection. Their homeworld would never be the same.

  “Good,” he grunted.

  He took one last look at the body, feeling almost as if he’d failed, then turned and strode back to the car. Adam Alanson ... his wife, if he had a wife, would mourn him, but she’d never have the satisfaction of watching his killer be sentenced to a lifetime of servitude. The mystery might never be solved. He opened the door and clambered in, shutting the door as Smith started the engine. Thankfully, the roads were clear as the patrol car headed down the streets.

  “Got a phone call from my brother,” Smith said. “His husband - one of his husbands - was at the protest. He didn't come home.”

  Mike winced. “Dead, perhaps,” he said. He’d never seen the value of a group marriage, but he knew some people liked them. “Or one of the hostages. They haven’t released a list, have they?”

  “No,” Smith said. “Stan was hoping I knew.”

  “Poor bastard,” Mike said.

  The car moved down the road, the radio crackling with brief updates. Lothian seemed quiet, but Mike spotted a handful of people staring out windows, watching the police car as if they feared it was a Trojan Horse. Perhaps they thought it was. There had been some police cars near the protest, hadn't there? Mike had no idea what had happened to any of them.

  His portable com bleeped. Technically, it was against regulations to answer when he was on duty - even when it was his wife - but Smith wouldn't say a word. “Jane?”

  “Mike,” Jane said. She sounded relieved. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. He hadn't told her about the firearms training. She wouldn't have been very pleased to hear that he might be putting himself in - more - danger. “How about you?”

  “Nervous,” Jane said. “Should I be heading out to Uncle Joe’s?”

  “There’s a curfew,” Mike said, although he knew the police force was in no state to actually enforce it. “You shouldn’t go out of the house unless it’s urgent.”

  “But it is urgent,” Jane said. He could just imagine her face. “What happens if the rioting comes my way?”

  “Then get out when it does,” Mike said. “Jane ...”

  His radio bleeped. “Hang on,” he said. “I need to dash.”

  Smith shot him a droll look as he tapped the radio. “Car Seven, sir. Over.”

  “This is dispatch,” a new voice said. Mike and Smith exchanged glances. The voice was utterly unfamiliar. “This is a priority call, code Sierra-Hotel-India-Tango. Report to 45 Longstreet. I say again, report to 45 Longstreet. Do not use lights and sirens. Report ETA once en route. Over.”

  “Shit,” Smith muttered. He swung the car around, then barrelled down the road. “We should be there in fifteen.”

  Mike keyed the radio. “Dispatch, this is Car Seven,” he said. He was no stranger to dangerous driving, but normally they had flashing lights and sirens to warn the civilians they were coming. If the streets hadn't been clear, he would have been worried. “We should be there in fifteen minutes. What’s this about, over?”

  “Report to the Incident Coordinator,” the dispatcher said. “Over and out.”

  “That’s us told,” Smith said. He frowned as he yanked them around a tight corner. “You think this is a trap?”

  “That was a valid emergency code,” Mike said. If there was an Incident Coordinator already on the scene ... something had happened, definitely. But what? “Let’s go find out.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Less savoury regimes reached for other solutions. Unable or unwilling to find a peaceful solution - or even deport the unwanted - they killed them. And there was no longer anyone left who could stop them.

  - Professor Leo Caesius. Ethnic Streaming and the End of Empire.

  “Sunrise,” Steward Yale said. “There’s no movement out there.”

  Joel nodded. The surrounding blocks had been cleared, their occupants had either fled or surrendered. They'd be taught the proper way to live soon enough. The police were out there too, but he didn't know where. They certainly hadn't attempted to mount a counterattack during the night.

  Weak, he thought. T
he police were practically unarmed. They were probably fleeing for their lives. And we can take the entire city if we want it.

  “Good,” he said. “I think ...”

  “The Elders need to prepare the bodies for burial,” Steward Yale said. “I ...”

  “The Elders are currently preparing our diplomatic note,” Joel lied, feeling a flicker of pure frustration. Why couldn't people just accept that he was in charge? He didn't have enough loyalists - yet - to risk letting the Elders out of confinement. “They cannot be disturbed.”