by Andy Graham
Fingers twitching, Prothero reached for his pocket watch. It was in his waistcoat, hanging over the wooden chair next to Franklin. The legionnaire’s helmet clattered onto the seat and Prothero winced. “Careful, please. That’s important to me.”
“It’s a chair.”
“No,” Prothero replied, “not just a chair.” An heirloom. A chance. Hope. Most families from Mennai had something to pass on from father to first-born son, or mother to first-born daughter. This was his. Prothero knew every curve and twist his great-grandfather had carved into it. He knew all the near-forgotten stories depicted by the symbols and scenes from the pantheon of Mennai, too. It was a link to his past, his future. He hadn’t yet given up on that last shred of hope that he would also be able to pass the chair on one day.
“Congratulations,” mumbled Prothero. “A well-deserved promotion. I recommended this myself.”
Franklin scooped his helmet up and dusted the seat down. “The Substation.” Not a question, a demand.
“I know very little about government policy, Captain.”
“I wasn’t aware we were talking about government policy.”
“Right. That. We weren’t.” Prothero thrust his hands in his trouser pockets, playing with the edge of the plaster on his forefinger. ”What I meant to say was—”
“I need help.”
“You need what?”
“Help,” Franklin repeated. He explained why he was there, what he wanted and how quickly. As the legionnaire spoke, the thumping in Prothero’s chest subsided. This may not be the problem he had thought it was.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said once Franklin had finished. “I don’t know anything about such a camp or a brother and, if it is what you are suggesting, I won’t have clearance or access anyway. I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“I was hoping you’d live up to your reputation and not side with the government,” Franklin said, a weary expression on his face. “Guess Brooke was right about you all being political clones.”
“Brooke? Who’s Brooke? What are you talking about?”
Franklin pulled something out of his pocket, keeping it concealed in his fist. “You’ve always been the only voice of dissent the government has ever tolerated, the one person who’s been able to push through any meaningful reforms,” Franklin said by way of answer. “No one else even pretends to listen. Who else could I turn to? Remember what you always say? ‘Nothing is fixed, nothing is forever.’”
“Yes. Of course. I would help if I could.” Prothero had the unnerving feeling he was being cornered. “You have no one else?”
“I thought so but she disappeared.” The man looked utterly exhausted now rather than fierce.
“What about Chester?” Prothero asked, eyeing whatever Franklin was keeping hidden.
“Breaking into a civilian building, even this one, is easier than a military facility. And since Substation Two went down, a lot of your security is off-line.”
“I’m sorry, Captain. I wish I could help, but I can’t. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow but I’m not hopeful.”
Franklin appeared to come to a decision. His fleeting look of vulnerability disappeared as he herded Prothero away from the door. The man stank of sweat and blood and dirt. A fresh cut across his forehead took a chunk out of one eyebrow. The recruitment ads never mentioned the smell or the disfigurement. The legions’ mascot, Captain Electric, had only ever been seen with strategically placed dirt. ‘Scars that don’t mar’ was the unofficial line.
“When I was a new recruit, I was sent to Settlement 610, New Town.”
The throbbing pain from Prothero’s cut finger disappeared. The nagging stiffness he felt in his knee from morning to night evaporated and, like never before, he regretted his choice to remove the security cameras from his apartment.
“I spent most of the mission in the trucks with the rest of the back-up,” Franklin continued. “I was told what happened. I found out later what really happened.” He checked behind the balcony curtains.
“What’s your point?”
“The accent. New Town had a very distinct accent. Partly due to the many wrestling caravans that would winter there together to train with each other. Also because of its proximity to the disputed border. It’s been claimed by both Mennai and Ailan for centuries, even to the point of dividing streets.” He stood in front of Prothero, just out of reach. “But then I think you know that. I also think you know what it was called about fifty years ago, when it was a prosperous part of Mennai, before Ailan claimed it and taxed it back to the Stone Age.”
Prothero thought back to his rushed greeting from the bathroom. Tired, sore and careless, he had used the wrong language. “How do you know this?”
“A colleague of mine was born there before two units of the Ailan army wiped New Town off the map, literally.”
“I know the story, Captain. I was told neither unit had known the other was there. Both claimed to have been fired on first, that there were terrorists hiding in the square, in the historic houses. It was a tragedy.”
“Did you also know the legionnaires slaughtered the villagers trapped in the square? That the villagers tried to escape into the ‘historic houses’ in the centre of the square? Were you told that many of the villagers crushed themselves to death in those pretty homes as they burrowed deeper into them to escape the bullets? That the military followed them in and killed many at point blank range? They used their rifles as clubs when they ran out of ammo. I helped clear up the aftermath. The battlefield forensics told their own story.”
Prothero shuddered. He hadn’t known this. He’d looked but not found any information. He’d been told the digital deficit had claimed those files. Franklin could be lying. Or the government may be. “Your point, Captain?”
“I heard the New Town accent in Substation Two earlier today, from a man about your height and build. He had a limp, same knee. Same odd-coloured socks, too.” He pointed. “Blue and green.”
“How dare you slander me like this.” This boy had no idea what and who Prothero had given up for this country. His hand twitched for the pocket watch again. It left a thin streak of blood on his shirt. The plaster had come off his finger, pulling the scab off the cut.
“Cut yourself?” Franklin held up the small plastic bag. Inside was a broken metal switch with a streak of blood on it. “There’s a serial number on the back. I believe the VP may be interested in seeing this, given it comes from Substation Two.”
‘Leave nothing behind,’ Prothero’s team leader had told his team earlier that night. ‘Nothing at all. You take a piss, you carry it out with you. You so much as fart, you make sure you get that rank air out of there.’ They had all chuckled and Prothero had given himself a mental pat on the back for choosing men who knew their trade. Except for the man who had failed to turn up and was most likely now drunk, locked up or dead. So Prothero had volunteered to make up the numbers. He had been building up to the mission for years. His partner during the Window Riots had first had the idea and there was no way Prothero was going to cancel at short notice. He couldn’t. He had just learnt that the hidden route into the Substation through the old elecqueduct pylons was due to be demolished any time soon.
He and the team had got in, done what they needed to do (though the explosion was a lot bigger than he had anticipated, problematically so) and flown out. As instructed, the men hadn’t left anything behind and were now probably spending their wages in an underground bar on more rough alcohol and sex than they could afford. Mission achieved. But he, David Prothero, a man who had prided himself on his cunning during the Window Riots, a man who considered himself worldly-wise and blessed with the right amount of cynicism and optimism and experience to survive both the corridors of power and the streets of the capital, had screwed up. He had not thought anything of cutting his finger in the Substation beyond the fact that his obsequious neighbour with the sculpted hair would have some drugs if the finger got infected. Damn the
man. Damn his luck. Damn his drunken team member. But most of all, damn Ray Franklin and his mother.
The legionnaire was doing a slow sweep of the room again. Checking. Watchful. The boy had a lot of his parents in him, both physically and in the attitude the authorities had thought the legions could contain. The eyes, the set of his jaw, were all Rose. But in uniform, with the stench of revenge hovering around him, the similarity to his father was striking. Prothero had an uncomfortable feeling the Franklins were not done with Ailan just yet. The question was, which side of the future did Prothero want to be on?
“OK,” he said, sucking the blood off his finger. “I’ll help you. You keep your mouth shut. But if this brother of yours is still alive, he may not be who you expect him to be. It may be better to leave him as he is.”
Franklin sat in the carved chair, his rifle across his lap. “Tell me what you know and why you were in the substation. And then get me into that camp. Tonight.”
The night sky was busier than normal, the circling lights lower. There was a hiss of tyres running through a puddle. Ray pulled away from the sheen of neon lights reflected in the pavement, trying not to look conspicuous in his attempt to be inconspicuous. It was a well-known but quietly discussed fact amongst the Rivermen that this was one of several blind spots around the Kickshaw, a few square metres of concrete where you had at least partial invisibility. The cameras above him whirred and focused on the passing vehicle as Ray huddled closer to the wall.
He had met Stella Swann at this bar before his world had started unravelling. She was another puzzle he had to solve now. Something else he needed to do before the government found him. They must have worked out who had uploaded that footage of the helicopters by now. And Prothero? Had the man really been in Substation Two to protect it? As unlikely as it seemed, he’d spoken very knowledgeably about energy security.
It had been part of the the official tag line of the post-Revolution government: maximising security, developing economic and societal efficiency. It had been one of the first things he had learnt in the access schools. When he had repeated it in front of his mother, she had sat him down and explained the small print: according to a governmental evaluation of local need. She had then listed the counter-claims of the propaganda war. Those battles had been fought across various digital formats until they were pulled off the ether, too. Rose had finished with a warning not to repeat the counter-claims if he wanted to see her again.
A burst of noise spilled out onto the street, quickly muffled as the door closed. Two women stood behind Prothero. It took him a couple of seconds to see past the civilian clothes and the new hair cut, but he recognised the first from Nascimento’s pictures.
“You look different from how I remember.” His mouth twitched into a smile. “You’ve got clothes on for a start. And you’re vertical.”
“What are you talking about, you slag?”
“Slag?”
“Who d’you think you are, anyway? You one of those malingerers from the clinic?” the medi-sec demanded. “Talking as if you know me. You don’t know me. You don’t deserve to know me.”
“I can see why Nascimento liked you,” Ray said.
The medi-sec hadn’t heard him. “Who is this stinky slag?” she asked the other woman.
“A friend of a friend,” Ray replied.
The medi-sec crossed her arms under her breasts, hitching them up and looking down her nose at him. It was an expression of indignation as classic as it was timeless. “Don’t sound like no friend to me.”
“Easy, easy now.” Prothero looped his arm around the second woman’s shoulders. “This is the man I phoned you about. Can you get him in?”
The way the second woman looked Ray up and down reminded him of the horse traders that had once toured the Towns, checking sizes and proportions and teeth.
“I think I can do that.” She pulled the end of her ponytail over her shoulder. “You’ll get me what I want?”
“Yes. Of course, Anna,” Prothero replied, kissing the top of her head.
“Please don’t call me that, Dad. I keep telling you, I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“Dad?” Ray mouthed to Prothero. The other man shushed him over his daughter’s head.
“Joanna’s a better name for a scientist, anyways,” the medi-sec added, picking at a nail. “Will you get me in again, too? That redhead was kind of cute—”
“Avery? You kidding me?”
“Well, cute for a nerd. Do you think he likes tattoos? I could change mine. Might be easier than removing it. Don’t believe I got a tattoo done for that muscle-headed goon and he never calls me back.” She linked her arm through the other woman’s, pulling away again when her head brushed against Prothero’s hand.
“Avery’s a jerk,” Joanna said. “A child running with scissors. Besides, I can only get one in at a time and you don’t want to get caught there, trust me. The DNA demon will disassemble you!” They both dissolved into fits of giggles.
“Tonight,” Ray said. “Now.”
“No can do, Mister Stinky-Soldier-Slag-Sir,” Joanna said, clouds of mist forming with each word. “My next shift is in two days. At least I get shifts. Word is, people used to be stationed there for months at a time. No TV. Not even decent internet. They censored the shit out of it.”
“No porn?” the other woman asked.
“Not even adverts.”
The medi-sec made horrified noises and the women giggled again. There was a similarity to the two, Ray noted. Not so much features but mannerisms and attitude. Were they sisters? Half-sisters? Cousins? Or merely friends who sought security in numbers and aped each other’s behaviour and dress sense? They were about as unlike Brooke as was possible while still being female.
The door to the Kickshaw swung open, releasing a burst of laughter and light as someone ran towards a departing tram. Snowflakes drifted down, melting on the pavement, and the medi-sec said, “C’mon. My round, I’ll treat you. Cocktails first.”
“Cock tales second,” Joanna finished, high-fiving the woman.
Ray exchanged quick glances with Prothero. The older man whispered something into Joanna’s ear. She shook her head. Prothero’s whispers became firmer. Her sigh cut off mid-breath as her gaze slid back to Ray.
“OK,” she said, disentangling herself from the medi-sec. “I can get you in. But you do what I tell you to do. If I say snake, you slither. Get it?”
“We go now,” Ray said.
“And how do we get out of the city without passes?”
50
The Wind at a Window
“Tunnels?” Joanna said, handing Ray a crumpled lab coat. “First, you drag me through filthy tunnels under the city walls, which got mud over my heels, are illegal and could cost me my job.”
Ray pulled the coat on, glancing at the rifle she had insisted he stash in a store cupboard. Not for the first time, he wished he had a decent sidearm. That would have solved all sorts of recent problems.
“Leave the cap gun, Soldier-Boy. There’s no way you can wander round here with that and not get noticed.” She snapped the lapels of his coat down. “Too small.”
“And some.” It was too short in the sleeves, tight across the shoulders and brushed the top of his thighs like a mini-skirt. The last time he had worn something this ill-fitting he had been teased so much he had knocked one of the other kids out. (And then he had worn the old woollen jumper of his mother’s for the next month. Just to make a point.)
“Have to do,” she muttered and gestured to a tool box that was the other part of his disguise. “Second, you bundle me into a jeep with rocks for tyres and stones in the seats. Probably stolen, which could also cost me my job.”
“Borrowed. Not stolen. Guy owed me a favour.” Ray managed to make one sleeve fit him, only for the other to ride up over his elbow. This lab coat made him feel like a hunch-backed scarecrow. And what was he supposed to do with these tools?
“Third, all I’ve got from you all night is m
onosyllabic answers. Fourth, I still don’t know your name.”
“This where you tell me four is not a couple?” Ray asked. Hope you and the others are raising up the hells, Nasc. Wherever you all are.
“What?” She tugged at her ponytail. “Never mind. Name please?”
“Mister Stinky-Soldier-Slag-Sir.”
She scowled at him. “That’s a worse joke than any of my dad’s. Did he owe you a favour, too? Is that why he gave you the co-ordinates to this place?”
“Kind of.” Through a slit window, the distant glow of sunrise was creeping over the horizon.
She peered round a corner. “Wait here, this area is off-access for most, you shouldn’t be disturbed.” Unbuttoning her lab coat, she smoothed down her shirt underneath it, making sure to expose the pendant nestling between the swell of her breasts. “How do I look?”
“Like someone who hasn’t had enough sleep,” said Ray, watching the pendant rise and fall.
She clicked her fingers and pointed at her eyes. “‘Dawn waits for no one.’ That’s one of James’s sayings; he’s Professor Lind to you. He’ll appreciate the early morning call. Most men do.” She gave him a pat on the cheek. “I’ll be back soon. No one should come down here, but if they do, act naturally. Smelling like you do, you’ll fit in just fine. And stay here!”
The click of her heels faded down the corridor, her scent lingering in the air. He pretended to be busy with the tool kit, aware of the dragonfly lenses in the cameras above him. Hopefully, Joanna had been telling the truth about them being off. Also hopefully, she wouldn’t bump into any guards soon. She hadn’t done this voluntarily and whatever favour she was getting from Prothero was not enough for Ray to trust her. Five minutes, that was all she was getting. That was enough time for her to disappear before he did. He still didn’t know exactly how he was going to find the info about his brother, but he had ruled out the kidnapping and coercion of Prothero’s daughter as soon as the idea had hit him.
