by Andy Graham
“How dare you! The 13th answers to me.”
“For now, Chester.” A flash of light washed across his face from the screen. “Ah, this is what I wanted to show you.”
“I will—“ She never finished her sentence. The single image on the wall-screens was replaced with a sprawling cacophony of pictures and videos. The images settled on a few clips being played on loop. “In the name of . . . ” she whispered, eyes wide. She had seen and done a lot during her half-century of service, but the slideshow now playing made her stomach churn.
A video showed one of the smaller sub-basement rooms from the old hospital. The distinctive glass tiles were a protected feature of the building, one of the idiosyncrasies that the law hadn’t caught up with yet. Hanging from the thick ceiling pipes were bodies, feet just scraping the floor.
There was a young Donian woman wearing a private’s uniform which had been phased out years ago, and an officer Chester had briefly served with, Range Sergeant Jilji, nicknamed Horsefeather. Then there were others, a bearded man in rainbow trousers. He had bloody gaps amongst his yellow-brown teeth. A woman, stomach distended and ankles swollen, gasped for breath. As Chester watched, the woman’s toes gained just enough purchase to stop her swinging, but not to take the slack out of the knotted silk cord around her neck. A shadow fell across the pregnant woman’s face. The image blurred and winked off, her bulging eyes burning a hole in Chester’s mind.
“The government of the time encouraged the nickname the Silk Revolution,” the VP said. “It was a form of counter-subversion. Hanging the protagonists seemed quite a fitting use for all those symbolic silk hankies the protestors were waving.”
“Some of them were civilians.” Chester was barely able to keep her voice civil.
“They were unlawful combatants found guilty of treason.”
“Physical torture has always been illegal in Ailan. It is one of the central tenets of our rule.” Death in combat, no matter how painful, was honourable, but this? This was an abomination. Regardless of the harsh discipline she had insisted on, she had drawn a very clear line that would not be crossed.
“This wasn’t technically torture, at least not as the law defined it.” He spread his hands in front of him. “Don’t blame me, General. I was born some fifteen years after the Silk Revolution, when this was filmed. I missed the Window Riots by a couple of years too, so you can’t pin that on me either.”
“Why was I never shown these clips?”
“An oversight, I’m sure. But they should provide a gentle reminder about loyalty and obedience. My father is rotting in a cell. Franklin is finished. As for you? I’m not sure where your allegiance lies, nor do I agree with the free rein you gave the 10th Legion. That, however, has worked well for me, allowing young Franklin’s natural tendencies to flourish and mature.”
He tapped his desk-screen. The pictures disappeared, leaving a close-up shot of the legionnaire. Chester had only met Ray Franklin a few times: before his squad had been sent into the mountains and in the hospital being amongst the most recent. She had followed his career closely, though. He had been singled out a long time ago as one with great promise if his past could be contained. The irony of that statement burned her to the bone.
The VP checked his watch, a look of cartoon-like surprise spreading across his face. “As you’re here, you’ll have missed the announcement. After many years, the military finally has a new field-marshal. It seems he has just authorised another two days’ leave per year and a modest increase to the pension. For those who get there, of course.”
Chester’s head was spinning. This was too much. She was the ranking officer of the military. She authorised these decisions.
“As of now, I am Field-Marshal,” he said. “The president actioned the executive order this morning. The military will follow their leader and, since the president’s role is largely ceremonial, that leaves who in charge?”
“You can’t do this!”
“You can’t do this, sir.” The screens changed, a collage of photos and documents fanned out across the room, images she had tried to hide, run from, papers she had thought burned. She spun in a slow circle, unable to look, unable to stop.
“Being naturalised takes more than changing your accent and the spelling of your name,” he whispered in her ear, having moved soundlessly around the table. “No matter how deeply you think your roots are entwined with those of my country. Best you remember that. We all know how much the public love a good lambasting. And I trust you are sensible enough not to talk to Bethina Laudanum about today’s little talk? After all, it’s not so long ago the public also loved a good lynching.”
The images of her past disappeared. Franklin was being stalked by a Mennai trooper. For a moment the trooper was staring straight into the security camera.
“That man is dead,” she exclaimed, confusion snaking between her fury and fear.
“Apparently not.”
“How did you hide him and authorise this mission behind my back?”
The VP patted her on the shoulder. “You don’t need to worry about that, General.”
“Don’t you dare touch this uniform. Get off me.”
”Now, in order to ensure a smooth transition you can distribute your little pin to your legionnaires. Some of your other changes, however, will be rolled back. I’ve always thought a few of those were a little too traditional. But I have legalised the sit-in. I understand my legionnaires were a little disappointed by your removing that.”
“You bastard, I didn’t do that.”
“My mistake. I can’t think who could have possible done such a thing.”
This was too much. Her bad leg started trembling, threatening to give way. She pulled over the chair. Before she could sit, the VP flipped the desk sign the right way up. He pointed to the text.
She knew what it said: I am the chairman. I get the chair.
“Close the door on the way out, General.”
“My ancestors made this country,” she said stiffly.
The VP finished attaching the lapel pin to his jacket. “My ancestors killed your ancestors. I win.”
Just before the door was closed, she saw Franklin being tackled by the wiry trooper she had thought dead. The men crashed through a door, out of reach of the camera.
44
An Old Friend & a Dumb Waiter
Ray slammed into the ground, clattering through buckets and mops. The Mennai trooper’s grip loosened. Ray twisted. Hooked one foot behind the man’s knee. Scissored his other leg through. He pulled. He pushed. He flipped the trooper onto his back. The man’s helmet slipped over his eyes, blood pouring into the thick black and grey goatee. Ray looped his arms around the trooper’s neck, slid off to one side and twisted to apply the chokehold. The man in the Mennai uniform struggled, tapping Ray’s shoulder as his heels drummed on the floor. Ray squeezed until the man’s grip went limp. He rolled away to pick up his rifle. It had been a struggle to let go. The furious memories in his head were screaming for vengeance. Killing this man wouldn’t bring the others back and Ray wanted answers.
His breath coming in short gasps, Ray aimed his weapon at the prone figure, waiting for him to come round. Timed right, the strangle hold would put people out without killing them. The sleep bomb was a technique the 10th used when they needed people alive but docile. The figure coughed himself into a sitting position and slid his helmet back. Ray found himself staring at a bloodied face he would have followed through the hells. Someone who had recently led him there: Captain Reza Aalok.
“Stay where you are.” Ray aimed his rifle at Aalok, trying to reconcile what he had been told, what he was seeing, what he wanted to do.
“I see they’ve promoted you.” Aalok wiped the blood off his chin. “To captain. Quite a jump.”
“Accelerated Battlefield Commission. Being the sole survivor, or so I thought, from under the mountain got me these stripes. It also got me command of the squad sent into Substation Two. Convenient, isn’t it
?”
The bulb flared and crackled, spitting shadows across the room. It was an old filament bulb that not even the Towns used anymore. The light turned the walls a rotting yellow.
“I’m glad to see you again, Ray.”
“I wish I could be sure. You once told me our kind means those in our uniforms, or those I’m told are our kind. You’re neither at the moment.” He clicked the safety off his rifle. “No hard feelings, just following orders, sir. I might as well do what I’m told one last time.” He brought the rifle to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.
When the noise and gunsmoke had died down, Aalok opened his eyes. Ray switched the weapon for the Mennai rifle. He aimed it at the other captain.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Aalok said.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Because that’s not who you are. Reliable Ray, Fervent Franklin, yes. Cold-blooded killer, no.”
Ray flipped the safety off. Sweat dripped down his spine, as he kept the rifle trained on Aalok. “Are you here to kill me or lie to me?”
“Neither.”
His finger tightened on the trigger. He wanted to let rip with the weapon, hurt Aalok, anyone. That would help the pain. It would make things go away. Aalok blinked. Once. Interlaced his fingers in his lap. All Ray had to do was squeeze the trigger and it would all be over. He could run. He would never live again. “Damn you to every hell there ever was.” Ray flicked the safety back on. “Talk.”
Aalok told him what had happened to him since waking up in a private military hospital. Intensive rehab and medical care followed by an expedited return to duty. He explained why he and his team had been sent into the substation, what else he knew, what he suspected. The captain’s bass voice was calming. Ray listened, asked questions and the colours raging in his head faded.
“We were told to think of our simulated sabotage as a training exercise, that both teams were missing intel to keep it realistic,” finished Aalok.
“When did you figure out it was all fake?”
“When my first shot killed someone. You?”
“When none of my shots killed anyone. That’s why they lowered the weapons down after us, instead of letting us jump with them. The chopper crew switched our ammo. Probably why none of us got sidearms, too. Fewer chances of us figuring it out. I should have realised this was off.”
“Skovsky.”
“Yeah, Skovsky.” Ray smiled. He slid the rifle over to Aalok. “The shots that killed the trooper on the walkway were you?”
“Yup. There was something odd about him. He was lethally efficient, knew the drills and commands, but wasn’t paying attention, playing the part rather than being the part. And then he turned up where I had ordered no one to go.”
“Unsung?”
“That’s my guess.” A distant boom shook the building. Aalok looked behind the dusty shelves, shifting old mops and brooms to one side. “There’s a woman in the squad with a similar way about her to the guy I shot. So we may have our work cut out getting you out.”
“Not me. Us.”
“You know my rules, Franklin. My people come first. I’m done with the lies.”
“What about the others, our old team? Orr and Nascimento? Brooke? I was told they were dead.”
Aalok shook his head. “That’s the official story; the real story is classified. I don’t know much, but it doesn’t look like Nascimento’s going to get his public reward after all.”
“Sci-Captain James?”
“He didn’t survive. I identified what was left of the body. Orr and Nasc are still in the hospital. I think our inglorious leaders are planning something with those two. This is coming from above Chester. There’s something odd going on and I’m not sure you, or I, are going to like it.” His frown screwed up into a glower. “The sooner they let Orr out the better. I want words with him. As for Nasty, I think he’s quite enjoying himself. I’m not so sure the female staff are enjoying his attention quite as much. One of the doctors has already been disciplined for trying to discharge him against orders.”
Ray started to search the room for equipment that might be useful. “He’ll win them round. He always does. Another ‘hater’ converted to the Nascimento choir. What about that thing, the creature under the mountain?”
“Shaw? Gone.”
“That was Eddie Shaw?”
“No one has told me anything about it but I’m convinced Brooke thought it was him. Odd thing is, the more I think about it, the less I’m sure whether Shaw was trying to protect the gwenium from us, or us from it.”
The hope that had been bubbling inside Ray since he’d seen Aalok refused to lie down. There was no point stalling. Not asking the question wouldn’t change anything. “Brooke?”
“I’m sorry, Ray. Her body was never found. I know you and she were close,” he added. “It’s—”
“It’s nothing, sir.”
Aalok gave him a searching look. “Fair enough. You need to deal with this your way.” He grabbed a battered filing cabinet and pulled it away from the wall. Headless brooms fell over, sending spiders scuttling out of their cobwebs into dark dusty corners. Aalok’s face split into a grin. He kicked the grille of the dumb waiter. The rusting metal carriage rattled in the shaft. “We may have just got one of us an escape route.”
Ray pulled open the doors of the metal cabinet. Inside were bottles of old cleaning chemicals and rags. “And a diversion.”
The VP drummed his fingers on the table of the desk, flicking through the security cameras. Substation Two was turning into a rout. The problem was, he wasn’t sure which side was losing. Worse, someone else had entered the game. The VP’s fake Mennai troopers had disposed of most of the legionnaires but were now cornered by a third group. In the background, a series of explosions rocked the cameras. Several of the pictures winked out.
“No, no, no, no!” He slammed his fist into the table. This is not how it was supposed to pan out. He had thought he could use the Substation Two mission to kill Ray Franklin, do the cosmetic damage Bethina had asked for and the real damage he had decided on. Only now, that plan was burning in grainy black and white images in front of his eyes.
The door which Franklin and his ex-captain had tumbled through was still closed. The VP stared at the screen, fingers twitching, willing the door to open. The numbers on the clock in the corner slowed to a crawl.
He checked the schematics for the building one more time. There were no other doors or windows to that room. The room wasn’t even labelled. Why was there no camera in there? Why wasn’t Aalok’s helmet camera working?
The door opened. A Mennai trooper stumbled out, his visor pulled down over his face. He staggered down the corridor. A flash of light and a noise the VP couldn’t hear blew the door behind him off its hinges. The trooper staggered and lost his balance. As flames blazed through the corridor, the feed to the camera winked out.
The VP pulled a drawer open, fumbling for a bottle. He dropped it as soon as his fingers closed around the glass neck. “No. Not now. Too early.” He pulled a small tin out of his pocket instead. Popping two of the mints into his mouth, the VP rewound the feed and froze it, spreading his thumb and finger across the screen on his desk. The five images hanging around the room expanded outwards in an explosion of pixels. The face under the helmet was unmistakable.
“You’re trying to trick me now, are you?” The VP muttered. “What were you and Aalok doing in that little cubbyhole anyway?”
He pulled up the building plans once more, tapping through older, pre-Revolution versions of the maps. After a few minutes he sat back in his chair and reached for the bottom drawer.
“Enough. My game. My rules.”
Deep in the bowels of the substation, Ray watched a team of unmarked soldiers through a gap in the piping. They weren’t fake Mennai troopers and were unlikely to be Unsung. Ray had no idea who they were. More importantly, he had no idea whose side they were on.
The soldiers stood at
a wall-sized control panel that flashed and beeped and hissed and steamed. It looked like it belonged in a toy museum. The men were spinning valves open and closed, reversing the positions of all the levers they could reach. The pattern was too random to be anything other than carefully planned and very well rehearsed. One of the soldiers, unarmed, scruffy and with a more generous figure than his colleagues, pulled out a small grey box. It was an earlier model of the one Hamid had died connecting.
The man in his ill-fitting fatigues plugged the box into the switchboard. He whipped his hand, swearing loudly. Ray’s eyes narrowed. He knew that accent. It was a strange mix of the two countries he’d heard a lot over the last six months. As for the voice? It could only be one person. Whatever was said next was lost in a jet of smoke and a metallic groan from the bank of dials and monitors.
The man checked the connections of the box, wedged a thigh-length lever closed and set off after his colleagues, his awkward gait slowing him down. Ray caught a flash of odd-coloured socks.
Waiting till the footsteps had faded into the steam, Ray walked over to the grunting panel in front of him. His eyes fixed on the blood smeared on one of the controls.
45
Reza
Ray ran through the underground labyrinth of old cars and trucks. Some of the vehicles were covered with dust sheets, others stood on bricks. One lorry held blackened pots, blankets, a lantern. An eyeless doll. As he worked his way towards the base of the dumb waiter, he slowed his pace. The pitted-concrete floor was dotted with puddles of oil that shone blackly. Ray’s luck had held on his way to the sub-basement but he had no desire to stretch it any further by slipping and twisting something.
Aalok was already waiting, spitting rust out of his mouth. Sinks and drains lined up around the hexagon of dumb waiter columns that stretched to the floors above. A stack of fuel drums stood to one side. The remains of the mangled carriage Aalok had used blocked the base of the shaft, a one-way trip for one, just like Aalok had predicted. He had a fresh cut on his face, the new blood mixing with the matted red in his goatee. As Ray pulled out a plaster from his belt-pouch, the captain said, “I need a little more than that.”
