The Elitist Supremacy

by Niranjan K

  With a muttered oath, he threw his brush on the floor, turned and walked towards the window, rubbing a hand across his face. He was frustrated, he was upset, he was angry but above all, he was miserable. He stared out of the window at the outline of the city that lay before him.

  Nizhoni was by no stretch of imagination, a beautiful city. Its buildings were functional, and the whole layout was aimed more at efficiency than aesthetics. Yet, like all old cities, Nizhoni too had a section which clung to the past, where graceful buildings still stood as if defying the modern ones, where streets meandered instead of going straight as arrows, and where the shades of colours from the past could still be seen in the faded exteriors of the buildings in contrast to the sterile white and grey of the modern parts of the city.

  Dylan had chosen his apartment in the older section of the city because he didn’t want to see the ugly monstrosities of Nizhoni’s skyscrapers through his window. His window opened to the outer edge of the city, to the farms spread beyond, and from it he could have an unobstructed view of the sky. Today, that sight didn’t calm him, even with the rosy hues imparted to the sky by the early morning sun, and he turned from it, barking an order to his Sentient to tint the window.

  He turned back to face the room that he had converted to a studio. It was well lit, and rolled up canvasses were spilling out of the corner cupboard where he’d kept them. The easel stood in the middle of the room, where it could catch the light from the window as well as the light from the ceiling. Sometimes, he liked to paint by the natural light of the sun. The palette had fallen to the floor when he had stalked off, and the brushes and paints were lying on the floor, a kaleidoscope of colour and shape. The wall behind the easel was a large painting of the view from his window that he had painted section by section. On the wall to the left hung a few photographs and paintings, some by him, and some by other artists he knew. The door on the left led to his living room. On the right side were the built in shelves where he kept his supplies, and the door that led to his bedroom.

  Dylan took a turn around the room, pausing for a moment in front of the framed photograph of his family, taken on Ash’s birthday. His mother had got three copies framed, and one hung in Nolan’s living room, one hung here, in his studio, and one sat on the side table of his parents’ living room.

  He stared at his father’s face in the photograph. It was a handsome face, black hair and eyes that crinkled at the corners as he smiled, the white of his teeth showing through the thick beard and moustache, and one of his arms was holding his wife close while the other was on Ash’s shoulder. Nolan and Dylan stood at both ends, smiling, the dimples they inherited from their mother prominent on their faces. Ash had their father’s hair, stubborn chin and their mother’s eyes and nose and dimples. She was slim and not too tall, taking after their mother. Her hair was cut so short, it was like a cap on her head. Dylan felt tears prickle his eyes as he looked at that photograph, and he turned from it furiously. He didn’t want to cry. He just wanted to be angry, because then he could forget what a monster his father was in reality.

  Dylan wished he could feel loathing and anger when he thought of his father. Oh, the anger was there, but it was only because he’d lied to them; not because of who he was. Dylan sat down on the floor and drew his knees to his chest, leaning against the wall. He buried his head between his knees and clasped his hands loosely in front of them, as he processed the realisation.

  No matter who his father was, no matter what he had done, Dylan could never be angry enough at him to hate him. He had never met Mason Davis; he had only known John Patrick, who used to carry him on his shoulders, who sang lullabies to him, and whispered bedtime stories. He had been there every single time he had needed him, and Dylan could never ever hate that man.

  “I left that life behind when I married your mother,” Dad had told them, and Dylan knew now that had spoken the truth.

  As much as it had hurt to learn that their father had lied to them all their lives, it had hurt even more to know their mother had done the same. Why did she never convince him to tell them before this? Did their parents trust them so little?

  Dylan rose and walked to the easel. He stared at the ruined painting for a moment before removing it, and placing it on a stand near the window to dry. He put a fresh canvas on the easel, and prepped it. He put a rag on the floor over the spilled paint, removed the brushes and palette and took new ones from the shelf, and started mixing the paint. He stood before the canvas, considering it for a moment, before starting to paint.

  He put the paint brush down only when his arms started to ache, and he looked at what he had painted. It was a painting of his parents’ house, with Ash standing on the lawn in front of it, her face half turned away that it was in profile. Nolan stood to a side, his hand in his hair as he looked at her, and their parents stood on the porch, their features blurred, and only the colours of their clothes standing out. Ash was the focus of the painting, and the house, the lawn, the grey skies and the other people were all a backdrop to her. There was very little colour there, the green of the lawn, the violet of Ash’s eyes, the bright red of his mother’s dress, everything else was colourless as if the colour had somehow been leached from it. He stood looking at it, and then coloured his brother’s shirt in sunshine yellow.

  Dylan felt calmer now, though he still felt the grief and the anger, throbbing beneath the surface. For the first time, he also felt fear. His father had said the Elite could come for them anytime, that an old friend of his had offered his help to hide them; the same man who had got his father a new identity so many years ago.

  “We all have to be ready to go at the drop of a hat,” his father had told them.

  They had no pets; their father had never let them have one. Nolan had noticed it as he had noticed how reclusive they were. They never had any friends but each other and they had never needed any others. They had colleagues just like Ash had classmates, but none of them had any friends. Their parents didn’t have any friends either and Nolan was the only one to notice all the little clues, and Dylan hadn’t even believed him. Not until their father told them who he was and that they would all need to leave, to hide where the State wouldn’t find them.

  Dylan looked at his bedroom. He needed to pack. Clothes, and his painting supplies; he didn’t think he’d be able to get any of that while on the run from the State. He walked to the bedroom, staring at the girl who was on the bed, asleep. When had he picked her up?

  She was lying partly on her stomach, and partly on her side, naked and sprawled all over his bed. His eyes moved over her long limbs, the curve of her back, one breast peeking from under her arm, and he moved to the bed, touching her shoulder.

  “Move over,” he said softly, as he remembered her name. “Mia? Move over, please.”

  She half opened her eyes and stared at him blearily.

  “Where were you?” she asked, voice heavy with sleep, as she moved to make room for him.

  He didn’t answer her, sliding onto the bed and turning to her to hold her tight, trying to forget his fears and his anger and his despair in her warmth.

  Thirty One

  The words on the document made no sense, or rather Raul could not focus enough to understand them. He put the pad down and frowned at the man sitting opposite him.

  “I can’t focus on this,” he said. “Alexander, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s quite all right, Raul,” Alexander said calmly. “I just thought you would like to review the terms of the partnership and suggest any changes you require so that by the time the vetting is completed, we won’t need to waste time.”

  Raul understood it, knew that he had to go through all this. This was his job, what he needed to do, but he couldn’t have done it now if his life depended on it.

  “All right,” Alexander said, his voice amused. “What’s eating you?”

  “Didn’t you see the news yesterday?” Raul asked. “About Colin Blythe? He is one of us.”

  “
Was, you mean,” Alexander said.

  Raul bristled. “He’s still alive. They arrested him, but he’s still on Hafi. We do have people there.”

  “If the Ansaris have him, he won’t be alive for long,” Alexander said calmly as he rose and walked towards the window.

  The afternoon sun blazed outside. Isabel was on Hafi, her last days in the State’s employ. The notice she gave ensured she wouldn’t be sent to the field again.

  “Does he know you?” Alexander asked. “Who else does he know?”

  “Colin won’t betray us,” Raul said.

  “You sound as if he has a choice,” Alexander said. “You’ve no idea what they will do to make him talk.”

  Raul thought of Colin as he’d seen him the last time, at Sergio’s house. He had looked so tired, so sad and nervous.

  If anything happens to him, it’s on us.

  The thought came unbidden. Colin didn’t seem strong, either in conviction or in physique. He had still challenged Sergio, though, and surely he wouldn’t betray them?

  “What will they do?” he asked, not certain he wanted to know.

  Even the thought of Colin being tortured made him feel sick. Nothing could be worse than that.

  “They have drugs,” Alexander said. “That can loosen your tongues and sharpen your memories, drugs that will make it impossible for you to lie.”

  Torture might not be so bad, on second thoughts. He gnawed at his lips.

  “What do we do then?”

  “So, he does know you.”

  “There are no records of that,” Raul said. “But if he talks... he knows me, Zain, George, Joyce... Oh God!”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Alexander said as he took out his pad and started brushing his fingers across the screen.

  “He attended an informal get together at Sergio’s the last time I was here,” Raul said, the sick feeling intensifying even as sweat broke out. “I had taken Isabel there.”

  His voice shook and broke.

  “If this is your idea of careful,” Alexander said. “I’d like to know what careless is.”

  Raul wanted to defend himself, to say that they couldn’t have anticipated it, but he should have. That was the thing. He was not naive, he wasn’t a child. He should have known. He wanted to pick up the phone and call Isabel, but didn’t know if it would make things worse. His heart was racing and his throat was dry. He pulled at the collar of his shirt to loosen it and a couple of buttons broke and fell on the floor at his feet making no noise. He wasn’t getting enough air.

  “Raul!” Alexander’s tone was sharp and his face loomed before his. “Do you always go to pieces when something bad happens?”

  He stared helplessly at Alexander. He was lost, not knowing what to do.

  “What do I do?” he asked.

  “The Ansaris won’t be questioning Blythe,” Alexander said. “They’ve been instructed to bring him to Nizhoni, to the Central Console. A thunderstorm has shut down the spaceport today, so, they’ll be starting tomorrow. Probably, they’ll be reaching tomorrow night.”

  “How do you know?” Raul asked.

  Alexander shrugged. “I’ve some contacts in law enforcement.” He paused. “Once Blythe gets to the Central Console, they’ll make him talk. Thaxter’s still off world, but they don’t need him for a decision like this. The leader of the Elite is Toshi Saito and Thaxter trusts him. The second in command, Elena Meier, is sadistic and would probably torture your man just for the pleasure of it.”

  “So, what do we do?” Raul asked.

  “If you have any sharp shooters in your ranks, you can ask one of them to kill Blythe, preferably while he’s still on Hafi.”

  “You must be joking!”

  “I’m perfectly serious.” Alexander said. “That or you rescue him. Which do you think is going to work?”

  “We may not be able to rescue him, but that doesn’t mean we should kill him!” Raul was indignant. How could Alexander even suggest such a thing!

  “He’s a threat,” Alexander said with the air of a teacher explaining something to a not particularly bright child. “I’m simply suggesting a way to neutralise that threat. Or would you rather wait until he spills the beans?”

  “I wish I could contact Zain,” Raul muttered, “But I left my communication device at home.”

  “That can be arranged,” Alexander said. “It’ll only be 2300 on Ignis now.”

  “Wait,” Raul said. “You have a means to contact Ignis?”

  Alexander looked at him, no expression on his face and Raul sighed. “Of course you do.”

  “Quinn?” Alexander said. “Please contact Lucas Hendriks. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  Raul stared as a holographic projection of Lucas appeared in the middle of the room.

  “Raul?” Lucas said. “Alexander? What’s up?”

  “It’s about Colin,” Raul said. “Lucas, can you get a message to Zain? I need to talk to him.”

  “Zain is here right now,” Lucas said. “So’s Niki and Davu.”

  Alexander rose to his feet. “I’ll be outside,” he said.

  As if that made a difference. After all, they were communicating through Quinn and if Alexander wanted, he could know every word they spoke. Still, Raul appreciated him going out. He could eavesdrop, but at least he wasn’t in the room.

  “What’s it, Raul?” Lucas was joined by Zain. “Is it about the vetting?”

  “No,” Raul said. “We have bigger problems. Colin was at an informal party at Sergio’s house the last time I was here. Isabel and George were also there. I’m afraid none of us were guarding our tongue much.”

  “Just because Colin’s arrested doesn’t mean he’s going to betray us!” Joyce said hotly. Raul hadn’t even seen her.

  “According to Alexander, he won’t have a choice,” Raul said.”He said they have drugs that could get the information out of him.”

  “All too true, I’m afraid,” Lucas said. “There are ways of building up resistance to them, but that requires taking the antidotes for years. I don’t think Colin would have had any exposure to such.”

  “We have to rescue him!” Joyce said.

  “I don’t see how we can do that,” Davu said.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Raul said. “It’s either that or kill him before he can talk, which was Alexander’s suggestion by the way.”

  “It’s a practical suggestion,” Lucas said, and Raul stared at him in surprise. “And easier than rescuing him.”

  “Is that what you say we should do?” Joyce asked, her tone dangerous.

  “No,” Lucas said. “I’m saying it’s something we should consider. The life of one man against the life of everyone here.”

  “No,” Zain said, shaking his head. “We can’t do that. I cannot do that. He may be a risk, but he is one of us, and we owe it to him to try and save him as we should have his brother and sister-in-law.”

  “The sentiment is good,” Niki said. “But have you considered what a rescue attempt will cost? I’m not talking of money. I’m talking lives. We’ll be risking more of our people on a gamble.”

  “I know,” Zain said. “But if we don’t take that gamble, then what are we, Niki? Why should anyone stand with us? We have an obligation to those who have joined us. We couldn’t do anything when Aaron and Reyna were captured and executed, but if we just step back and take the safer option every time, then what’s the point in having a Resistance? We have to do something. It’s time.”

  “Admirable sentiments,” Alexander spoke from the door which he had opened. Raul hadn’t even noticed. “I came in to see what was taking so long, and it looks like you’re all descending into collective insanity.”

  “You stay out of this!” Joyce said. “You’re not one of us. This doesn’t concern you!”

  “Agreed, but unfortunately, this is my office and you’re communicating using my Sentient, and considering you all need me slightly more than I do you, I think I should get a say.”

&nb
sp; “And what is your say?” Zain asked. “That we kill a man who has been loyal to us?”

  “Easy and painless,” Alexander said. “And eminently more practical than trying to rescue him. That too from the Elite.”

  “They may be immortal,” Joyce said. “That doesn’t make them invincible. It doesn’t give them any special powers.”

  “No,” Alexander agreed. “But they don’t need powers. They’ve had centuries of training. They’ve superior weapons. How do you plan to face disintegrators? Or erupters? Or spikes?”

  “What are those?” Raul asked. He hadn’t heard of Elite using weapons.

  “Disintegrators disintegrate all matter,” Niki said. “But somehow it doesn’t work on the Elite.” Typical, Raul thought, even as he listened in fascination. “Erupters are specialised guns, capable of discharging a bullet that explodes within the victim’s body—either immediately, or after a while—killing them and anyone nearby.”

  “What!” Raul exclaimed. He’d never heard of such weapons. Judging by the expression on Lucas' face, he hadn't either.

  Niki continued, “They can make it small enough to just kill him or powerful enough to destroy a house, or even a whole city block.”

  “And spikes?” It sounded familiar, and even Lucas was looking grim now, but Raul couldn't really remember where he had heard it.

  “Spikes have been in use for centuries.” Niki said. “It’s also a specialised gun, meant for delivering a sharp bullet that could pierce through most armours, and once inside the body, it splits into pieces and attacks the internal organs. Good thing about the spike? Takes only around 15 seconds to kill. But as long as it doesn’t pierce flesh, it’s only about as harmful as a sharp stick.”