by Andy Graham
White lines blurring on the road in front of him, his thoughts turned back to what he had seen: a brother, Rhys Franklin, the code. Was it a status? A disease? A mistake? The truth? If so, had his brother been born before or after the one-child only law? What would that mean?
The jeep rolled to a stop. He lifted himself up to get his Visit Pass out of his pocket. His back was stiff but not sore. Maybe all that pain-babble stuff of Stella’s wasn’t utter nonsense.
A knuckle rapped on the window. A man’s leering face looked down at him. Ray groaned. He should have chosen another entrance. The longer journey would have been shorter than the hours he was going to spend here. The gate sergeant didn’t seem to have forgotten Ray’s earlier threat to name every bone he broke if he wasn’t let through.
11
The Bits in the Middle
The same medi-sec let Ray through to see Dr Stella Swann, all the while complaining about women who do men’s jobs and men who should grow a pair. “You never know who is what these days,” she opined to the back of her nails. “Life was less complicated when all the doctors were men. Cuter, too.”
Ray gave her his best salute and headed for Swann’s room.
“You can’t go that way. It’s restricted,” the medi-sec called after him.
Ray sped up. He didn’t think she’d call the guards but didn’t want to chance getting caught.
“Dr Swann’s on her lunch break.”
He pushed the door to the corridor open.
“I’m off to the canteen, too,” she called after him. “Shall I get you something?”
And as the corridor door clicked shut he heard her shout that she could knock off early this evening if he fancied hooking up. Ray hurried to room six, knocked, counted to three and entered.
Stella jumped, dropping her food on the table. “Ray? You’re back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I’m eating.”
“Sandwiches, ma’am.”
“Thanks for clearing that mystery up for me.” She sighed and peeled her half-eaten lunch off the table. “Does your back still hurt?”
“No, ma’am. It’s doing much better. Those prayer squats of yours seem to help. They’re doing Nascimento the world of good, he thinks they’re hilarious.”
Stella scrubbed her hand through her hair. “Your back’s improving, I know what I’m eating for lunch and you’ve told me your friend has a dodgy sense of humour. Are you going to tell me why you’re here? Or have you come to watch an over-worked doctor eat what her kids didn’t finish last night?”
“I’ve got a question.”
“Be quick.”
He gestured around the room. “You’ve made some changes.”
Stella had removed some of the pictures from the walls of her temporary office. She’d also rearranged the furniture so the chairs were on the same side of the desk.
“That’s not a question.”
“No, ma’am.”
Stella muttered something Orr would have been proud of. “If you must know,” she said in a controlled voice, “I’m trying to undermine the outdated stereotypes and patterns of behaviour between medics and patients. It does more harm than good. Holding doors open is frowned on by some women—“
“You called it chivalry or chauvinism.”
“Yes, I did say that outside the Kickshaw, didn’t I?” Her smile made the shadows under her eyes more pronounced. “I can take or leave the whole holding doors open thing. I can accept a compliment from a man without finding it patronising, too. The old attitudes within the healing professions are worse. They encourage a paternalistic dependence of patient on practitioner, which promotes disempowerment and fragility.” She cocked her head to one side. “Is that why you’re here, to talk about medical ethics, morals and progress?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her head sank into her hands.
He was stalling, holding off on his real reason for being there. Apart from the risk of being booted out, the more time he had in the room, the more chance he had of getting back on that screen of hers to access his files. Besides, he got a childish pleasure in watching her restraining her temper.
“Anytime you like, Corporal.”
Ray half-heard her, eyeing the desk-screen hungrily. After fielding and posing a few more questions, he got round to asking his favour. “I have a relative in the Towns with White Plague who needs help.”
Her face softened. “I’m sorry, Ray, genuinely. But White Plague is not my field.”
“You’re a doctor.”
“I’m not that type of doctor. It’s out of my jurisdiction. I don’t have the required clearance. And if the Governing Medical Council found out, they’d crucify me. They’ve already got nails ready with my name on them, figuratively speaking. I hope.”
“Please?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” She sat, tapping on her screen between mouthfuls of food.
Through the window, the parade ground was empty, the dull grey concrete a reflection of the bland sky. The medi-sec was sashaying across it, undulating curves and a rolling gait that had blinds twitching around the square. Ray made comments about the drill he and Stella had watched together, hoping to tempt her from the chair. She didn’t take the bait. Even if it did work, he wasn’t sure how he would get his notes up, short of stealing her swipe card. He wouldn’t do that to her, but he had to try something. The tapping noise of Stella working stopped.
“I meant to ask you something last night in the Kickshaw.” She took her swipe card out of her pocket. Ray stared at its reflection in the window as she lay it down next to her lunch. “The salute to the fallen — those that went before us.”
“Will keep the watchfire burning,” Ray finished.
“The second stanza was phased out after the Second GTC. The first line should repeat.”
“Officially.”
“Is this another 10th Legion disobedience privilege?”
He wasn’t sure if she was teasing or curious. “It’s not just us, all the legions do it. When you’re cold, wet, tired and hungry, when you’re being shot at, bombed and stabbed in the back by your own leaders, anything that gives you even a sliver of hope is worthwhile.”
She turned the screen off, her eyes probing his.
“You’re a civilian scientist from the Gates. You don’t get it.”
“I’m a medic, not a scientist.”
“You talk like one.”
“And I wear a suit to work, which I know you have a problem with. Bizarrely.”
“‘It’s the worst type of uniform for its ubiquitous, innocuous menace that smacks of conformity and repression,’” Ray recited. He smiled, despite his mood, remembering the moment he had repeated the sentence in the mobile school as a child. He had since learnt what all the words meant.
“Who taught you that?”
“You think I couldn’t come up with something like that on my own?” A flash of heat ran up his spine. “A lot of superstitions live on in the military that the commanders and the government don’t know about, approve of or have banned. I don’t know why. I blow stuff up and shoot people for a living.”
He rolled up his sleeves to reveal the multicoloured ink underneath. Coloured lines and pictures wound their way up his forearms, weaving under the sleeves of his shirt. A maze of images stared out: animals, faces, letters, cobwebs. A river twisted all the way down one arm.
“Ink isn’t bulletproof,” he said, “but it feels good knowing it’s there. That line they tried to take out of the Salute to the Fallen, because some desk-bound fool decided it wasn’t credible, feels good saying. When you’re not sure you’re going to see the sun rise again or the moons set, it’s a reassuring thought that you’ll live on in some way, especially in the 10th where our deaths are deniable.” He jabbed his finger at her, his voice rising. “That’s what the second line of the Salute gives us. Why they would take that away fro
m the military in the name of scientific and governmental consistency, I don’t know.”
The last words were shouted. He lowered his hand, ashamed and angry. What would he have done if he’d caught someone speaking to Lenka this? Hit them, probably, given his recent mood. He cursed under his breath and stalked over to the window. On the parade ground, the same recruits as last time were gathering. The tense silence between Ray and Stella was broken by a gentle chiming from her desk-screen. Feet shuffled outside the door.
“You’re right,” Stella said. Despite the quiet, he had to strain to hear her. “I’m a civilian medic. My mother wasn’t in the military, either. She was a shop assistant. She wanted to be a hairdresser but they won’t even sell her scissors now because she made a flippant comment some politician took offence to.” She pulled her white coat off the back of her chair. “And we both watched what was left of my father and her father being buried. They were soldiers, or had you forgotten that?”
He looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry. I—”
“I’ll see what I can do about your friend,” Stella cut in. “I can’t promise anything but I may be able to pull in some favours. Now, unless you want to help me with my next patient?” She left the question hanging.
“It’s bits in the middle that get you,” he said, forcing the words out.
“Excuse me?”
“You asked about up-downs last time I was here.” He motioned to the recruits exchanging nervous jokes in the parade ground. “The up and the down are the easy parts. It’s the transitions, the bits in the middle, that get you, the bits you aren’t expecting. Maybe that’s why we do them.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Don’t they get easier?”
He was still laughing as he left the room, a laugh that started sarcastically and ended as a genuine, full-bellied roar which brought a cautious grin to Stella’s face.
12
Captain Electric
“What?” Nascimento’s voice exploded around the changing room. One of the mop-bots skittered into a cabinet, squealing as it ricocheted under a bench.
“Go take a look,” said Ray.
“To all of them?”
“Just a couple of the heavy ones.”
“What do you mean ‘just’? They’re the only ones I use.” Nascimento stuffed his shirt into his locker, ripping off one of the epaulettes in the process.
Ray counted to ten. Gritting his teeth before he stood up, he sauntered over to the door. “Your barbell, too.”
The door shuddered on its hinges. Nascimento burst into the gym and surveyed what he saw as his private corner of the weight room, his therapists. ‘The numbers don’t judge or lie,’ he had confessed to Ray one messy evening in the Kickshaw. ‘You hit the lift or you miss it. Simple.’
Now, the serpents tattooed across his shoulders writhed as his chest rose and fell. “You got to be kidding me,” he muttered. “You told me a couple. Don’t you have schools in the Towns? A couple means two. Like a married couple. Two. Not this... this orgy of wrongness.” The clink of iron faded as Orr and the other legionnaires watched. “Brooke!” Nascimento yelled.
She strolled up to him, sweat plastered across her dark forehead, and slid her arm around his waist. “Hello, Jamerson. I’ve freshened the place up a little. Do you like it?” She pointed at the barbell propped up in the squat rack. “You were so concerned about me using your weights, ‘a man’s weights’, I thought I’d give them a feminine touch.” Brooke flexed a bicep and gurned at the mirror. “Maybe I won’t get too bulky now.” She patted his backside. “I would’ve done the dumbbells, too, but Captain Electric was giving me the evils.”
Private Toorn, a legionnaire with a face like someone trying to lick his own elbow, ignored her. Brooke shot a glance over her shoulder at Orr. “And young Baris here is still using them to learn how to count. I didn’t want to confuse him.”
The smile slid off Orr’s face. “Back off, Brooke.”
“Easy, boys. If you don’t like it, don’t give it.”
Nascimento picked up his barbell as if it might give him a shock and placed it in front of the squat rack. He dusted the flakes of pink paint off his hands and smiled broadly. “You will pay for this, woman. Someday. Somewhere. Somehow. You will pay.” A low chorus of warning moans spread around the group, breaking off into banter as Nascimento snapped back at some of the quips.
Orr grabbed the remote for the wall screen, muttering in his odd border accent, as Brooke headed back to the wrestling mats. Sweat dripped down her neck. It ran under her top, down her spine. Seeing Ray eyeing her in one of the mirrors, she raised her middle finger behind her back — known as flying the eagle amongst the troops — and disappeared round a corner.
“Right, Franklin,” said Nascimento. “You know the rules. Monday’s deadlift day. Let’s bury last week and kick this week into next week.” He set about putting plates on his barbell, visibly struggling with the new colour.
“I thought Monday was squat day?”
“Dude, every day is squat day.”
“Not sure my back’s up to your type of therapy.”
Nascimento’s face disappeared in a cloud of chalk. “I’d give it a little more love if I were you. My deadlift saved your skin in that exploding farce in Mennai. You owe your life to a barbell.”
There was a clatter and a curse behind them. Nascimento’s jaw dropped as he watched Private Toorn standing on one dumbbell, using both hands to curl the other weight to his chest. The top-heavy man was bracing himself against a mirror with a toe. Side on. With his stomach sucked in and chest up.
“What is Captain Electric doing?” asked Ray.
“One, I have no idea,” Nascimento replied. “Two, why is bicep size always directly related to the bagginess of gym shorts? Three, does the clown own anything other than tight muscle vests and big shorts? Four, I still have no idea. Five, that’s a couple of answers for you, Franklin. Bucket maths at its most evolved.”
“Listen, Nasty—”
“Don’t care if your back hurts. Don’t call me that again or I’ll mess you up proper.”
“Back off on the Bucket jokes then.”
Nascimento shrugged. “Wouldn’t have been able to make it if you could count like normal people.”
Before Ray could reply, Orr shouted, “I see Captain Electric’s still on his top secret no-show-no-go plan.” Orr was standing right next to where the now red-faced private Toorn was attempting his latest exercise. “Which fundamental movement pattern is he functionally stabilising this week?”
“His primal spirals,” Nascimento called back.
The gym echoed with cheers and jibes as private Toorn fell off his dumbbell. Ray fought back his own laughter. It stabbed at the base of his spine. Above where Toorn was disentangling himself from bouncy balls and rubber bands, the lopsided wall-screen was showing a repetitive montage of clips. An old military recruitment vid of a soldier staggering out of a ruined castle, a wounded colleague slung across his shoulders, alternated with motivational statements given by fading athletes and adverts for all kinds of things that were, apparently, essential for the survival of the human race. The wall-screen flashed a few times as Orr changed the channel off the auto-feed. It buzzed through a few channels of dated music, past a report of another power station being taken off-line, and settled on a middle-aged man at a conference. He was speaking straight to the camera, his wavy grey hair shaking every time he pounded his fist on the lectern.
“Nothing is fixed! Nothing is forever!” David Prothero boomed, the size of his voice at odds with his frame. “The government is closing the mines. We can fight it. We will fight it.” A muffled cheer went up from the crowd on the screen. The camera cut to and from a furtive, nervous looking group of citizens in seconds. Prothero’s voice distorted in the speakers. “Lives depend on it. Our country depends on it. Coal is our future. Energy is what binds us, feeds us, homes us. Together we can—”
Orr muted the wall-screen. “There’s your man,
Franklin.”
“He’s not my man,” Ray said wearily. “Once. Just once, I said he speaks more sense than the others. How does that make him ‘my man’?”
“Once?” Nascimento asked. “Can you count to once, Franklin?”
Ray flew him the eagle. Brooke joined them, dabbing at the fresh grazes on her shoulders with a towel. “Wake up. They’re all the same, political clones. The only difference is the colour of their ties. He does have a certain charisma to him, though,” she added.
“Are you serious?” Ray exclaimed. Slightly jowly, Prothero and his rumpled brown suit stood out from the sharply dressed figures on the podium with their incandescent teeth. A pocket watch chain ran across his waistcoat.
“If he were younger, yes, but even now there’s something indefinable about him.”
“What?”
“Don’t know. That’s why it’s indefinable.”
“You’ve gone Skovsky on me, Brooke.”
“Listen, my broken, naive friend.” She trailed a fingernail down Ray’s cheek. He felt it tingle all the way to his feet. “Charisma and charm outweigh policy in politics. Just like people vote according to feelings rather than fact. Always have, always will.”
“He’s the only one coming out with new ideas these days,” Ray protested.
“New? He’s resurrecting ideas the other lot tried to bury. Anyway, it’s easy to promise things when you don’t have to deliver.” She pointed her damp towel at the screen. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he manufactured this row over coal so he could appear indignant and outraged. It gives him more ammunition. Either that, or he’s useless and didn’t see it coming.”
“He got prohibition repealed; that’ll do for me,” Orr said with a shrug.
“For the love of— Is that it?” Brooke slammed the water bottle down on a bench. “You’re the newbie here, Sub-Corporal Baris Orr. You tell Captain Electric to put some trousers on. Those knitting needles Toorn’s got sticking out of his shorts make my eyes want to bleed.”
