by Andy Graham
She rolled her chair back to the desk and frowned at what was waiting for her on the screen. “Ray Franklin? When did I call up his file?”
She checked the door. Noises of Dan playing with the kids in the bath filtered into her office. He’d be bribing them to wash their hair by letting them wash his. She should probably help him. Dan, that was, not Ray. Her research could wait. Ray’s notes meant nothing. She must have just wanted to check up on a patient. That was all.
“An ex-patient,” she corrected herself. She hadn’t seen Ray since leaving him in the hospital room three weeks ago. There was no need to look at his notes now. This was unethical and unprofessional. Stella’s finger, which had been hovering between the ‘more’ and ‘close’ buttons under Ray’s name, made its own choice and tapped the left button. The one Lenka had warned her against. There it was, under Ray’s name: Brother – Franklin, Rhys.
She tapped the screen. A red code, X517, replaced the black letters. A thought hit her that made the hairs stand up on her neck. She barely noticed the sound of splashing water in the background or the squeals of laughter from her kids. X517, the code flashed in front of her, at her.
Stella had forced herself to forget so many things Ray and Lenka had said. She hadn’t wanted to make a mistake, to let something slip that could be used against her and her family. But now, seeing the X517 code, the memories of those conversations were as vivid as the code on her screen: the veiled references to children Lenka had made, the talk of twins and left handers, her warnings to let it go. Stella should let it go but something within her, the stubborn part of her that her husband both adored and was infuriated by, refused to back down.
Stella logged out and back in again using a different password. She got the answer she had feared — her lower level clearance didn’t list Ray’s brother. Using her enhanced research clearance, it was there plain as day. She logged off, resisting the temptation to check again. Keystrokes were logged. One could be explained without a good reason, more could not. Why was Ray’s brother only mentioned with higher level clearance? There was a possible answer, she realised with a growing sense of nausea. It wasn’t a pleasant one. Not only did it make Ray’s dead brother his twin, the answer also linked to the ex of hers who had worked on the left-handers, the guy she had mentioned to Ray in the Kickshaw.
As the shadows on the wall flickered, a giggling little girl jumped onto her lap, still covered in bubbles. A shudder ran through Stella’s body. She should find Ray, tell him what she knew. But did she really want to defy Lenka’s last warning and go down that road?
42
Left or Right
The black-clad legionnaire sprinted through a rain of crimson and gold sparks and collapsed behind a steel column, sheltering from the hail of gunfire. Someone shouted. “Captain Franklin!” It was one of Ray’s men. The private was running towards him, head ducked low. The legionnaire stopped at an intersection of the walkway they were both standing on. It was metres above the ground, creaking and groaning and rattling. “Sir? Where to?”
“Left!” Ray signalled. The legionnaire made his own choice. “No! Left. I said—” A Mennai trooper emerged from the smoke, grey tendrils curling around his rifle. “Watch your six!” A shot rang out and the private collapsed in a red mist. These kids were fitter than Ray had ever been but they couldn’t follow basic instructions. How in all the hells had he ended up in this shit storm?
Ray had spent the best part of the last month on his back, being refused any requests to leave his bed. He’d tried pleading, bribes, threats, even polite requests. Nothing had worked. Each refusal had tightened the knot of desperate fury in his head. He’d been left with only the medi-bots to talk to. So he’d trashed one. They were experimental robots. It was a field test. He was helping them. He should have felt embarrassed as he smashed it to pieces, calling it every name under the moons. He was still ranting when Dr Neufeld sedated him. Then the pig-fingered nurse and the rest of the animal farm had restrained him — thick, double-holed leather straps with buckles that bit into his flesh — and transferred him to Bedlam on a penny-farthing wheeled trolley.
They’d been the last people he’d seen before he was discharged, promoted and briefed, all within the space of twenty-four hours. Within another day, he’d been airborne with a bunch of rooks younger than the bullet-firing rifles they’d been issued with. The squad had made the jump, the kids’ boasts and braggadocio still squealing in Ray’s ears. Their weapons had been lowered down after them and they’d rushed into Substation Two.
“Take out the terrorists, Captain Franklin,” he’d been ordered. “Before they sever the main electrical supply to the capital.”
The ambush had been immediate, an ambush Ray should have been able to smell coming in his sleep.
He’d lost two legionnaires in that death trap and the rest had barely got out alive. Since then Ray’s squad had been systematically picked off. It didn’t help that the Mennai hunting them seemed to be invincible. Same couldn’t be said for Ray’s men.
“Captain,” the legionnaire called, his voice barely audible over the klaxon. Another shot thundered through the hall and his head dropped.
Ray raised his weapon. Trained the red dot on the approaching trooper’s chest and fired. The Mennai man flinched. Continued running. Shots rattled through the air, sparking off the metal, and the trooper collapsed. His rifle dangled over the edge of the walkway, fingers stuck in the trigger. Ray pulled himself behind a column as gunfire thundered around him. The hot air was scorching his lungs. The straps of his body armour cutting into his shoulders. Maybe he should take it off? Like they had under the mountain.
“It’s the wet heat that kills you,” James’s voice sounded in his ears. Focus. Think. What would Aalok have done? His neck pain was warring with the ache in his back, fighting with each other to be loudest. His head was spinning. Too many options, not enough choices.
“You’re falling to pieces,” a voice that sounded like grandad Taille said. “A wreck. Should be back in the hospital. Martinez would be more use here. Hells, I’d be more use.”
The doctors hadn’t wanted to let Ray go but he’d been happy to be free of the place. A part of him had wanted to stay, hoping Stella would come back to see him. A larger part wished Brooke and the rest of the squad had come in to accuse him of malingering. What he would give to have them here, rather than the amateurs he’d been dumped with. What he would have given to be able to give his squad the send-off they deserved. His improvised sit-in had ended when the nurses had bundled him back into his bed and dosed him with something that left a metallic glow in his mouth. The seething bundle of emotions he had compartmentalised bubbled free. He stamped on it, forcing it back into its box. This was not the time or place. Not now.
Focus.
Bulbs blew high above him, glass rain tinkling on the concrete floor. Flames lit up the vast room. Ray squeezed his eyes shut. Hamid was plummeting from the ceiling in the never-ending fall that always killed him. Ray scuttled low along the platform to another pillar, forcing himself into the steel wall. He’d killed Hamid. Lenka was gone. Skovsky. The squad. Brooke, who had made him feel alive. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging. He stared into the carnage unfolding in front of him.
The Hallowtide spirits beckoned to him. “Hamid’s here,” they whispered in Stann Taille’s voice. “Your friends. Brooke. Your brother. Lie down. Let the troopers find you. That’ll make it better. There are rules governing captives; you’ll be safe.”
The darkness around him reached out, warm and safe.
“Keep it together, Franklin. Focus. What was the word Brooke used? Maudlin. Don’t get maudlin. Something like that.” If the Mennai caught him, a 10th legionnaire, they’d shoot him on the spot or put him on a ghost flight back to Mennai. The first option was more attractive.
Shards of metal flew off the pillar above him. More gunfire. This time from a different angle. He ducked sideways, his back grating like broken glass. Another explosion lit
up the room and clouds of green and blue flames billowed across the floor.
“Focus!”
There were two exits under the walkway. The right one led deeper into the substation, to his mission, his government. The left led back to the outside, towards the forests that merged with the Weeping Woods. He could lose himself in there, go to ground. How long could he survive living off the land? How long before they caught up with him? It was worth a shot. Anything would be better than this. He could leave Ailan. Desert. Like his father. Live up to the Franklin reputation.
He pulled out a grenade, primed it and rolled it over to the body of the dead legionnaire. He couldn’t remember the kid’s name. He didn’t want to know. It would make Ray responsible for him. The grenade stopped, just kissing the explosives looped around the other man’s belt. At least his aim wasn’t off.
Twenty seconds.
He pulled out a grappling cord from his belt and wrapped it round the pillar. Bullets ricocheted off the walkway.
Ten seconds.
The bodies of both fallen soldiers, legionnaire and trooper, jerked violently as the bullets thudded home.
Five seconds.
He snapped his visor down. The shockwave hit. Flames and heat and noise wrapped around the walkway, embracing the dead soldiers.
The Mennai trooper slid off the balcony, hitting the floor with a wet thud. His rifle bounced off his chest. Ray leapt over the remains of the safety railings, half swinging, half falling to the ground below. He crashed feet first into a wall below and slid the last few metres to the floor. Spots danced in front of his eyes. There was a red mark on his palm where the rope had burned through his gloves. A secondary explosion. A crackle of electricity filled the air and someone screamed.
At least something seems to hurt them.
The noise of the klaxon had been replaced by the shouts of Mennai troopers, orders in a language he understood. He ducked his head and sprinted across the floor, scooping up the Mennai rifle as he went.
This made no sense.
Not my problem any more.
Ray disappeared through the left exit.
43
Ancestors
The legionnaire flattened himself against a wall as a patrol hurried along an adjacent corridor. He put one of his rifles down, pulled a card out of his pocket and tried to swipe his way through the door. It was instantly outlined in red flashing lights. Grabbing the rifle, he sprinted down the corridor, card gripped between his teeth. The VP paused the video feed. “I understand he was one of your finest recruits, General. A man to be eventually commemorated for his service to the country.”
Chester didn’t react. Her skin still tingled from the cold shower this morning. It had been timed to perfection; fire may cleanse and purify, but cold hardened. It prepared her, focused her like it did before battle. Tradition was important, she reminded herself, the past non-negotiable. Today, she would make the future hers, too.
“General?”
“He doesn’t look like he’s ready to be commemorated just yet.”
A silent explosion sent Ray Franklin scurrying down a corridor deep within Substation Two. The lack of sound on the video gave it an unreal quality, as if the legionnaire wasn’t really fighting for his life. The VP tapped a button. The picture changed to show a squad of heavily armoured Mennai troopers checking their weapons.
“The legendary skill of the 10th Legion didn’t help them under the Donian Mountains. Let’s hope this young man is a better example of what they have to offer,” the VP said.
“That man is doing what he has been trained to do, and he does it very well.”
The VP focused the image on Ray’s retreating form. “Not a great sense of direction, though. He’s going the wrong way. Unless, of course, he’s running away. Another Franklin coward. Rebellion and dishonesty run in their genes. You don’t know how happy that makes me, nor how much money I stand to win.”
Chester ignored his leering smile. She pushed a lapel pin across the table. It was designed as a dragon coiling its way around a sword, scales glittering. He gave it a perfunctory look. His lack of interest gnawed at her.
“I’m supposed to wear this?”
“The transition will be easier this way, smoother.”
“The transition.” He chewed on the word. “Nicely put, General.”
“Bethina’s position will be spared. She is too important to lose.”
“And I am not?” The images of Ray Franklin flickered in the VP’s odd-coloured eyes. “Tell me, Chester. Who else has this little pin of yours?”
“My Praetorians. The Rivermen will be next.”
“Ironic, given their feelings for each other, that they will be the first to receive the honour. Can you shed some light on the rivalry? I haven’t been able to work it out. No one seems sure what started the grudge in the first place, but they’re now all too busy trying to bury each other rather than the grudge.”
“All the hallmarks of a good grudge, sir.”
“Oh, come now, Chester, that’s not like you. You’re far too principled to hold a grudge just for the sake of it. Any issues you have must be based on something much more meaningful.” His lips twisted into a parody of a smile. “Surprising as it may be, I agree with you.” He spun a battered wooden box across the table.
The box held a piece of paper, wrapped in creased plastic. Inside was a badly drawn picture of a soldier, a lightning bolt emblazoned across his chest. “Did you know the current legions’ mascot, Captain Electric, was someone else’s idea?”
Sweat prickled across her skin. This was not the response she had expected in any of the scenarios she had rehearsed.
“Not a big deal. Up until now, only one other person knew the true story of good ol’ Cap.” The VP saluted melodramatically. “And it gave me great pleasure ensuring that the hero of the forces was everywhere my father would see him. He knew what it meant to me.”
“Your father designed Captain Electric?”
“He drew the picture for me in one of his sober, guilty moments. I assume it was an attempt at reconciliation. It failed.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I remember those who cross me, Chester, no matter who they are. I want you to understand that.” The VP restarted the silent video feed. Ray Franklin was on one knee. He fired off round after round down the corridor. The approaching soldiers came rushing on. They walked through the bullets as if they were rain. Captain Franklin scrambled to his feet and disappeared out of view. Chester frowned. Something about the Mennai was wrong.
“However,” the VP took the picture back. “As far as my father and good ol’ Cap are concerned, I will gain far more pleasure when I kill the old man’s cartoon off. It and everything it stands for. From now on the military will be run as I see fit. Out with the old, in with the new. You wanted to talk to me about something similar; out with the new and in with the old?”
The chill she had felt in the shower this morning returned.
“Your ever-so-casual, old-fashioned lifestyle has left quite a paper trail, figuratively speaking of course,” he said.
“You have no proof.”
“Of what? A coup, perhaps?”
“Of anything.”
“What of your promises within the Brick Cathedral?”
“All phones were off. My apartment was checked.” She snapped her mouth shut, wishing the words back. Her position within the military had been unchallenged for so long she was out of practice. No one had run rings around her like this for a long time.
“Technology has advanced, Chester, lip reading and bugging is so old-fashioned. Sound waves cause vibrations and vibrations can be measured. Next time you’re in your apartment, stop admiring the view and use your blinds.” He called up a menu on one of the screens and started scrolling through files. “And who said proof was necessary? These days the truth is more dependent on a loud voice and a large wallet than anything else.”
Chester screwed her feet into the gr
ound, her back ram-rod straight. “The military will follow their leader.”
“I intend them to.” He clicked on a file, tapping in a long password to open a sub-menu. “You were part of the Silk Revolution, if I remember rightly?”
“I helped put it down,” she said, cautiously. This conversation was skittering away from her.
“Most people think it got its nickname for the seamless transition of power. Lots of structural damage to buildings, but barely a drop of blood spilled. As peaceful a thing as these events can be when dealing with basic animals like humans.”
On the screen to her left an explosion ripped pipes off the ceiling. Steam seared out of them, driving the troopers back. Ray Franklin hurled his helmet down one corridor and sprinted up another. He was running awkwardly, weighed down by the two rifles, one from Ailan, the other from Mennai.
Chester squinted at the screen. The nagging thought that something was wrong with the Mennai got stronger. Then it hit her like a body blow: their uniforms had no insignia, those helmets had been replaced years ago.
“Those men aren’t Mennai Troopers. You’re using the 13th Legion against Ailan’s main power station.”
“Very good.” He grinned at her. “Only a couple of them are Unsung, though. Most are rookies from the Sixth Legion who can’t spell their own names. Let’s see if Franklin can work out who’s who.”
“How did you manage this?” Her voice faltered. She wasn’t sure if the revulsion she felt was for Ray Franklin’s situation or her own. The unbearable smugness of the man tapping away at his desk-screen just made those feelings more acute.
“I have some contacts within the Unsung who agree with my views on how this country is being run. I borrowed a few legionnaires.”
