Revolution in the Underground

by Michaels, S. J.

  Not a single person had left the hall and not a single person showed even the slightest signs of boredom. Maggie was feeling an extreme social high. With no one else to share the spotlight, she was free to get as silly as she wanted. Though her increasingly wild antics and growing embellishments might have been perceived as annoying in another context, it made a fantastic reception amongst this audience. The mess hall, being removed from the rest of the world, seemed to permit this sort of obnoxious behavior.

  Indeed, it wasn’t only Maggie who acted increasingly rambunctious. Though no alcohol had been served at the meal, the crowd was in many respects drunk. Towards the outer edges of the gathering were people, like Ember and Sven, that had been so sated with food that they were perfectly content to fall asleep. To these people, Maggie’s words possessed a peculiar distorted quality—one that seemed to grant sensibility to her words only a few at a time. Though these people were cognizant that what she said should have made sense, they could not manage to synthesize meaning from her meandering sentences—but nonetheless laughed and smiled when everyone else did.

  Towards the inner rings around Maggie was a different type of intoxication—one characterized with an over-readiness to laugh. At even the slightest provocation they would roar with a laughter so great and so infectious that it created a positive feedback loop—a cycle which was only broken when Maggie began a new story.

  The laughter came to a sudden stop when Bradbury and his entourage entered from one of the secret doors. His face was excruciatingly pale and forlorn. He plopped down at the edge of the table and propped his head up in his arms with a despondent abandonment. The crowd, caught somewhere between intoxicated gaiety and perplexed curiosity, stared at Bradbury with misleading smiles and contrasting eyes.

  “What are you looking at?!” Bradbury shouted angrily.

  The crowd remained dumbfounded for a few seconds. At last, a wry younger revolutionary from the back bellowed, “How’s this for leaderless resistance!” There was an uproar from the crowd.

  One of the more gregarious women mocked further, “Uh-oh guys! We’re all hanging about in the same place… we’re displaying camaraderie… we’d better be careful… don’t want the Police to come and ruin our fun.”

  “What’s so funny?!” Bradbury snapped, instantly killing the gleeful mood. Sven, as tired as he was, joined Kara in full attention. “Haven’t any of you heard about the bomb blasts at the rave?!” The crowd was silent. Kara and Sven had largely forgotten about the incident. Even Maggie, who had a wound from the event, scarcely remembered it.

  “They were blanks,” someone said at last. “There were no explosions… No deaths either…”

  “A few people were trampled but none of the injuries were fatal,” another explained.

  “You’re missing the point,” Bradbury said, rising to his feet and slowly walking over to the crowd with his posse. “Someone or some group was trying to make a point.”

  “It was probably some immature prank.”

  “An immature prank?!” he repeated mockingly. “I don’t think so. The second detonation was timed too perfectly. They were trying to make a point.”

  “Well, it wasn’t The Tyrant or The Despot,” a woman said knowledgably. “That’s not their style.”

  “I don’t know who did it?!” Bradbury said, slamming his fist down on the table in his typical fashion. “I’m suspending all raves until we learn more. Effective immediately.” He turned his back to the clamorous crowd and made his way to the exit.

  “Bradbury!” Kara shouted. “We found two more!” Bradbury looked over his shoulders at Maggie and Ember and grumbled gruffly. “You were wrong! I told you I wasn’t lying!” Bradbury did not so much as look at Kara.

  Some attempts were made to resume the merriment after his departure but it just wasn’t the same. Soon the five of them—Maggie, Ember, Kara, Sven, and Luna—got up to leave. Conversation on the way to Sven’s house was brief and to the point. Kara and Sven spent some time speculating about the incident at the rave, and Maggie quietly conversed with Luna about nothing in particular. After Luna, much to Maggie’s delight, agreed to spend the night with them, there really wasn’t anything more to talk about.

  The two-story house was small, but cozy. The exterior was, in sharp contrast to its surrounding buildings, well kept, though clearly yellowed with dirt and age. The two windows on the upper floor were adorned with bright red shutters on each side, and a flower box, which was filled with wilting weeds, underneath.

  Sven pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. “Mom, I’m home.”

  Ember shot Kara a perplexed glance and then said aloud, “Where we’re from, you’re kind of a loser if you still live with your parents at this age.”

  Kara laughed in a not-so discreet fashion, “Here too.”

  “Oh, I see… Sorry big guy, I didn’t mean any offense,” Ember said, patting Sven on his shoulder. Sven lowered his eyelids to express an annoyed acceptance.

  “Oh Sven dearest,” a surprisingly short and feeble, middle-aged woman said, running to the corridor. “How was your day?” Though she was not fat, per se, she did have that typical plump body of a woman who had taken to more sedentary pursuits in her old age. Her face was creased from years of gratuitous smiling, and, on the whole of it, gave her a very agreeable, nonthreatening, and jolly presence.

  “Fine. Some of my friends are going to stay the night,” Sven said in the annoyed tone of one who didn’t feel like explaining things to his mother.

  “Oh dear. Oh my,” she said upon seeing the group come in through the door. “That’s fine dear. Take off your shoes everybody… I don’t want mud all around the house.” Sven took off his shoes and placed them next to a pair of worn boots, which he eyed with some suspicion. “Oh, Kara, dearest. How do you do?”

  “Great, Mrs. Helsinki. How are you?”

  “Oh, I can’t complain. Back’s acting up again, but nothing too bad. Oh Sven dear, your other friend is already in the basement, maybe you should go down to see him.” Sven walked up to his mother and bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “He’s kind of cute and very nice,” she said as if admitting something, “but he did seem to have some awfully strange requests. You sure everything’s okay?”

  “Yes, Mom, everything is fine. I’ll tell you more in the morning,” Sven gave his mother one more kiss and then squeezed by her and opened the basement door, motioning for the others to follow.

  “Ooo, I like your outfit, sweetie,” she said to Maggie as she passed.

  “Thank you!” Maggie said, still not tired of the compliments.

  “Nice seeing you again Mrs. Helsinki!” Kara said as she began walking down the basement.

  “You too dear!”

  Though the basement was dark and somewhat cold, it was furnished with various trinkets that seemed to succeed in brightening and warming the atmosphere. Styles was hunched over a pot near one of the cement walls. He spoke without turning around, “You’re mom’s nice.”

  “I’m glad you like her,” Sven said sarcastically.

  By Style’s side was a large lamp whose light was focused on a small and unsuspecting pot. Light spilled over the pot and illuminated parts of the adjacent walls. The group followed with their eyes, as far as the light would allow, around a series of elaborate apparatuses and channels constructed from makeshift materials—angled pans, bent utensils and pots with holes strewn through them. There was a slow drip from one of the contraptions that fell evenly on the pot beneath it. Presently Style’s was tightening some knob to adjust its flow.

  “What… What are you doing?” Kara asked in sheer astonishment. Maggie and Ember watched on with equal amazement.

  Styles regarded a thermometer from within the pot and subsequently scribbled some figure on a notepad. He took some of its dirt and rubbed it carefully between his figures before electing to add some more liquid to it. “You may sleep here tonight only, but you will have stay over on that side,”
Styles said, pointing to the wall directly opposite the pot. “Tomorrow we will need to work on procuring further lights and securing this room.”

  “What?” Sven exclaimed, practically muted by Styles’ audacity.

  “For this, I will need to enlist your help. The Imperial Police know my face, and I do not want to jeopardize this mission by attracting any further attention. From now until the leaves bud, I will not leave this plant. You will have to bring me all the supplies. I will require two meals a day for myself.”

  “How long until it buds?” Kara asked.

  “At least two weeks, but I will want to wait until four in order to ensure good extractions.”

  “Is there anything else?” Sven said sarcastically, confrontation not being in his nature.

  “Tomorrow I’ll assign you roles. I trust this isn’t too imposing,” he said wryly.

  “Imposing? You? Never?” Sven said, seemingly stuck in his sarcastic manner.

  “Roles? We have roles?” Luna inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Even me?” Maggie asked.

  “Yes, all of you.”

  “Huh,” Maggie sighed with curious excitement.

  Sven grabbed a few dusty covers and pulled off cushions from the couch to make arrangements for everyone to sleep separately. At Luna’s urging however, the group decided to pool the covers and pillows and all sleep together. The awkwardness of the proposal was greatly mitigated by the knowledge that the conserved body heat would make for a much more comfortable night. They arranged themselves, from left to right, as follows: Sven, Kara, Maggie, Luna, and Ember—Styles did not sleep that night.

  Luna and Maggie whispered casually about the day’s proceedings, and Maggie was heard to have remarked that, “all things considered, the rave was kind of fun.” Sven and Kara discussed plans for the next day, and Ember mostly lamented quietly to himself about the sleeping positions. In half an hour, they were all sound asleep.

  Chapter 13: A New Normal

  Though no one, least of all Sven, fully trusted Styles, they all acquiesced to his every command. Styles was, for all his mysteries, a man with a plan and he was a natural leader. And although he seldom explained any facets of his plan, it was enough for everyone just to know that one existed. There was something in the way that he didn’t trust others that made others want to be loyal to him. Each judgmental grin, every critical glance, seemed to instill a fiery fervor to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, one’s own fidelity.

  Maggie and Ember were particularly susceptible to such tactics—Maggie because she desired for everyone to like her, and Ember because he longed to be useful for a higher cause, perhaps also as means to win Kara’s affection.

  Though Sven pretended not to be effected by Styles judgmental games, he, perhaps more than anyone else, most tried to prove his allegiance. The whole situation was uncomfortable for Sven. Compared to the rest of the group, Sven was the oldest and held the most senior position within the revolutionary circles. Considering this, and the fact that the daily operations took place in his home, he felt a natural obligation to assume the reigns of leadership. Deep down, however, Sven knew that he had neither the decisiveness of judgment nor the cold utilitarian mentality required to be a leader, and secretly he was happy that someone else took on the responsibility. Not assuming the gauntlet of leadership and taking orders from a suspicious stranger in the confines of one’s own home, however, are two different things entirely. He felt an inexplicable need for confrontation, but, himself being strongly adverse to such acts of aggression—even through verbal means or in spirit—resolved to remove the tension by proving his usefulness. By obeying Styles demands, he had sub-consciously, and rather erroneously, believed that all tension would evaporate. Though Sven, by virtue of his positive proclivity and jolly predisposition, went about his business with a genuine smile, an internal conflict brewed inside him: one marred with feelings of guilt, inadequacy and frustration. Sarcasm was his only means of truly venting.

  Kara neither trusted nor liked Styles in a way much greater than she let on. She too, however, followed his every command and played into his loyalty tests. For Kara, it was no more than a game of cat-and-mouse—she would play her part and he would play his. Participation did not require trust, only the mutual understanding that things needed to be done and that ulterior motives were had. She would go on pretending to care about earning his respect, but really she would be spying on him—scrutinizing his every action for signs of treachery. Styles, for his part, would go on pretending to be convinced by her act but in reality would continue contriving situations to reveal her true suspicions—such was how Kara perceived their situation. Though these mind games required such psychotic over-analysis of every minutia and such detailed observations that it occasionally drove her to despair, she mostly found the thoughts intellectually stimulating and an interesting way to pass the time. The more she earned his trust and respect, the more dissembling and clever she felt.

  Only Luna seemed immune to Styles ways. She did what ever was asked from her, but never acted with particular haste or vigor—at least not in a way that seemed correlated with his judgmental comments. She never exceeded expectation, nor fell below them. She simply went about her day, merrily enjoying the company of everyone around her.

  Then, of course, there was Styles’ fanatical obsession with the plant. He cared for that plant as if it were the sole reason for his existence and the meaning to the universe itself. Regardless of their feelings towards him, they couldn’t help but admire his power of devotion. How could one doubt the aims of a man who spent, by no other will than his own, every waking hour toiling in the dirt? And it wasn’t only how much time he spent, but also the manner in which he spent it—arched over with tweezers and a wearable magnifying eyepiece, tinkering with various contraptions, and attentively scribbling notes. He would sit on his knees on the cold dirt floor of the basement for hours at end, without so much as a pillow to lessen the discomfort, personally pipetting individual droplets of water in concentric circles around the plant’s soil. On occasion, he was even heard talking to the plant. His devotion was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

  Besides for his sleep—which he did for one hour every five hours—the only rest he took was to have his meals—a loaf of bread, two potatoes, a carrot, a can of beans or nuts, an occasional biscuit, and two glasses of water. As long as he remained devoted to the plant, everyone else would follow his instructions—such was the unspoken agreement.

  The roles that Styles assigned everyone changed from day-to-day, but nonetheless followed a general pattern. Sven and Kara were to attend meetings with other revolutionaries no less frequently than before. Their contributions to various revolutionary initiatives and activities were to be equal in scope to that of their comrades. Styles also expected a complete list of every member in attendance as well as details of any source of contention at the meetings.

  Maggie and Ember were to continue to serve as beacons of inspiration for the revolutionaries and act in such a way that was consistent with the desire to return home. On occasion, Maggie and Ember were instructed to attend meetings with Sven and Kara and subsequently report any suspicious behaviors amongst the revolutionaries. Since it was believed that the police would kill them should they ever discover their origins and whereabouts, Maggie and Ember were advised to dress like the locals and proceed with caution.

  Luna, who possessed an astonishing scientific acumen and technical expertise, was to consult Styles on scientific matters and assist in the construction of various apparatuses for eventual use in DNA extraction and sequencing.

  Styles really only had three rules, and so long as those weren’t broken, he was satisfied. These rules were: don’t talk about the plant to anyone else, don’t act in a way to arouse suspicion, and don’t ever leave the plant unguarded. These rules were based solely on the dual assumption that there was a traitor amongst the revolutionaries and that the said traitor would desire to destroy the plant s
ince its sequence could open the Gate.

  So concerned was he about the third rule, that he required one other person to stay with him at all times should he need to sleep, eat, drink, or go to the bathroom. In theory, there was supposed to be a rotation to the selection process, but in reality, he mostly requested Luna’s company. Though no one had suspected any romantic relationship between the two, it had crossed everyone’s mind that their association was more than unusual. As with everything Styles did, there were secondary motives to the plan. Whoever’s turn it was to spend the day with him had, to look forward to, long periods of unbearable boredom interrupted by occasional interrogations and random questions that one suspected he placed far too much consideration. Only Luna didn’t seem to mind.

  On occasion, Styles would ask someone to purchase nuts, bolts, or glassware, for use in the plant’s supposedly “essential” supportive machinery—which was quickly becoming ludicrously elaborate. He also asked for various chemicals: detergents, chloroform and ethanol, to help with the eventual extractions, and various fertilizers to speed the plant’s growth.

  Then there were the really unusual requests. He would take Kara aside and ask her to keep an eye on Sven, or tell Maggie some seemingly insignificant secret and then specifically instruct her not to tell her brother, or even ask Ember to spy on his sister and report the findings. So demonstratively stupid were such requests and so blatantly were they ignored that it was a wonder why he continued to keep them up.

  Surely he knows how we laugh at these instructions, Kara thought to herself, and surely he knows how we talk about it to each other… Is he trying to unite us under the shared understanding of his own ridiculousness? No, I’m sure it must be something devious. On the surface he wants us to believe that he actually finds our reports insightful. This, we are supposed to believe, is the rationale behind his strange requests. But I don’t believe it! How can he expect me too! He does not expect us to take our espionage missions seriously and he could not expect to put any weight on our reports. He knows it, I know it, and, unless he thinks me a fool, he knows that I know it. So understood is this fact, that it cannot possibly be his first line of defense.