He slouched in his chair as it all started to come together. Eduro was one of the Knights on the recon mission. He was breaking an oath he swore years ago. The Chief of Staff watched in horror, his surety and secrets crumbling in front of him.
“Some of these governments used to be our allies, others were our enemies, but now is a time to forget the past, to forget the killing, and to have a shared sense of humanity. Now is a time to share our energy with them so they may have the quality of life many of us have come to know.”
Eduro paused to take a sip of water before continuing.
“For too long we’ve abandoned the principals on which Tisaia was founded—principals of freedom, justice and equality. We imprison our immigrants, starve our citizens in Rohania; and worst of all, we keep our resources stockpiled in bunkers beneath our cities. I ask you all now, what are we afraid of? Another war? Another holocaust? I can tell you humanity can’t survive another war. Any just God would have already abandoned us. Now we must seek forgiveness, and share our energy, food and resources with others that need it now more than ever. It’s our duty as Tisaians; it’s our duty as men.”
The room erupted into upheaval, some representatives standing, others jumping from their seats. Most of them were chanting “blasphemy,” but there were a few that remained silent—a few that supported the old Royal Knight.
The chamber was divided. It was what Sonii feared the most. Now there would never be a unanimous vote on 12b. Eduro knew what he said would cause great turmoil in the chamber. In fact, it was one reason he hadn’t discussed his short speech with his aides before giving it. He was old and wanted to die proud of his service. There wasn’t any way he could support 12b. He had been diagnosed with terminal cancer only a month before and he knew he didn’t have much time left. It was after his diagnosis he decided he could take whatever Governor Felix, Commander Augustus and any of their cohorts could throw at him. If he was going to die, then at least he was going to do it with honor.
Sonii looked down at Eduro as he limped away from the stage by himself. Even his aide was too terrified to help him back to his desk.
“I want Eduro’s resignation on my desk by tomorrow,” Governor Felix snorted, before disappearing into the bowels of the Capitol hallways.
Sonni listened to the echo of clanking armor from the Governor’s two guards who raced after him. He sighed, reluctantly rising from his chair to follow the most powerful man in the world out of the chambers. “This is going to change things,” he muttered.
Chapter 4: Guerrilla Warfare
“Guerrillas war is a kind of war waged by a few but dependent on the support of many.”
~B.H. Liddell Hart
Time: 12:31 a.m. January 30, 2071
Location: Biomass Trolley Docking Station #4. Tisaia
Terminus sat at his post, overlooking the trolley station below. He took a bite of a cold turkey sandwich, chewing it slowly with his old and broken teeth. These days he had to be careful when eating, for he didn’t have the money to get another one of his teeth fixed. His age had started to catch up with him, and his teeth were only one of the harsh realities he faced on a day to day basis.
The screech of a trolley screamed out in the night, bringing Terminus to his feet as he squinted to make out the train in the distance. The station Terminus worked had been in operation for ten years and was the largest trolley station in Tisaia. Its sole purpose was to carry Biomass across the country from the facilities to the cities, which powered their vehicles, and supplied their heat and energy needs.
As the massive oval light of the trolley burst over the horizon, Terminus put his sandwich on a handkerchief and raced down the stairs to the platform. Three other State workers joined him on the brick ledge of the trolley docking station. The red of their overalls blended in like camouflage under the red glow of the street lights lining the trolley platform. Terminus nodded at Decima, a maintenance worker he had worked with for years.
Terminus’s radio blared to life as the trolley continued to close in on the station. “Biomass trolley 467, approaching dock station #10. Requesting permission to dock for repairs, over,” the conductor said, over the static of the radio.
Terminus brought his black, wallet-sized radio up to his mouth, his overgrown mustache covering the small device. “Permission granted," he responded.
The mechanics waited at the edge of the tracks for the trolley to approach. They watched as the trolley began to slow, its electric brakes protesting, sending sparks shooting from the underbelly.
Decima stood by the edge of the tracks, his ears instantly picking up the whine of the trolley’s engine. Over the years he had worked on hundreds of trains, and like the cries of a child, he became familiar with the sounds, knowing what each one meant. Tonight, however, the sound was different, unlike any he had ever heard.
The train docked at approximately 12:35 a.m., a cloud of smoke and steam rising from under the lid of the engine. Decima and Terminus immediately went to work, using the trolley’s running boards to climb onto the side of the engine compartment and reach the hood. They waited momentarily for the scorching mist to subside before going to work.
“Decima, hand me a wrench and on the count of three, we’ll open the hood.”
Decima nodded as he slid a wrench across the metal hood of the trolley. Terminus grabbed it and placed it over a large screw securing the left side of the engine’s lid. Decima mimicked this action, and they twisted their wrenches, freeing the lid from its restraint. The hood popped ajar and they worked together, lifting it to reveal the massive engine fed from a single pint of Biomass. Hard to imagine this pint could power the trolley the entire 200 miles, he thought, wiping the beads of sweat dripping off his wind burnt face. He placed his wrench back into the breast pocket of his red overalls and peered inside the bowels of the engine compartment. What they saw was something neither of them recognized — a tangled web of wires and plugs emerging from the overheated engine.
“What the hell,” Terminus muttered.
“How did that happen?” Decima responded, perplexed. What the pair of maintenance workers didn’t realize was the cords and wires were not part of the engine at all. The three years they spent at technical school had not prepared them for the mess of wires protruding from the engine compartment.
“I think we need to call this in to headquarters,” Decima said, in a concerned voice.
“No, we can fix this, Decima, we just need to get in there and figure out what the hell happened. If we call this into headquarters they’ll send us a brigade of Knights, and I really don’t want to be interrogated tonight.”
“It’s your call, boss,” Decima shrugged.
“Wait just one damn second, you two!” the trolley conductor cried from the side of the brick docking station. “That’s my train, and I’m responsible for it. I don’t know what you’re looking at over there, but if there’s a safety concern, then protocol is to contact the CRK.”
Terminus turned to look at the old conductor. The man’s face was pale and lined with age. A white mustache curled up towards his nose, looking as if it would tickle him and cause him to sneeze every time he spoke. The conductor spat a gob of brown chewing tobacco on the brick platform and waited for Terminus’ response.
“Okay, you call it in then, but I’m not going to wait for the CRK to get here. We’re going to try and fix this damn engine before we’re interrogated by those damn Tin Cans,” he said, smugly.
The conductor grunted. “Do what you have to do. I’ll call it in from your post,” he said, making his way up the ramp to the offices.
Terminus and Decima looked at one another. They both knew they had little chance of fixing the engine before a dozen Knights showed up with their shiny gmetal and a swarm of questions. Nonetheless they got to work pulling the loose wires from the engine, trying to determine where they were coming from.
After an hour of work the pair climbed off the running boards and back onto the sturdy brick do
cking station. They had cleared all but one wire out of the engine, and had found it attached to a small box under the Biomass cell. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it before. It was small, and if it weren’t for the wires, tiny enough to be overlooked by an amateur mechanic. The black casing didn’t appear to be an actual part of the engine. A dark red wire protruded from the center of it and ran up through the heart of the engine. Decima and Terminus stood by the side of the train, sipping from their canteens, and wondered if they really should wait for the CRK to arrive.
“I don’t know about this, Decima, have you ever seen anything like it?”
“I was just about to ask you the same question.”
“It’s pretty apparent that someone put this thing here, and I’m not sure I want to cut that wire,” Terminus said, sighing and taking another sip.
“Whatever it is, the wire is preventing the train from getting enough Biomass to run properly. So I suggest we cut the wire, remove the box, and get this train back on its way. This trolley has over five cars of Biomass, and it’s due in Lunia in two hours. That’s almost a week’s supply,” Decima explained. “Besides, we both know sabotaging a trolley is next to impossible. This is more than likely a new piece of technology the mechanics at a different post installed to help the train run more efficiently.”
“And we didn’t get the memo?” Terminus asked, frowning.
“They’ve stopped telling us when they add new parts to the trains. And with all the hype about new Biomass out there, it’s possible some mechanic added this without sending us a note,” Decima said, shrugging.
Terminus cocked his head to look back at the idle trolley. It was a truly magnificent machine. Its design, one he had studied at the Tisaian Engineering College, was developed by the same scientists who created the first batches of Biomass.
The trolley itself was over a thousand feet long and was made of a new lightweight metal, allowing it to literally glide over the tracks. It was so fast it could get anywhere in Tisaia within two hours. They rarely broke down, and when they did, it didn’t take long to get them back on the tracks. It was a remarkably efficient machine.
Terminus groaned. The trolleys had become his life’s work. Whenever something was wrong with one he felt it, like the metal was a part of him. In an odd sense, they were his giant pets. He was their caretaker, and fixing them so they could go back to work gave him great satisfaction.
“All right, Decima, let’s cut it. We can explain later that the wires were preventing the engine from getting enough Biomass to run efficiently. The mechanics who installed the damn thing can fix it, for all I care; this shipment of Biomass has to get to Lunia.”
Climbing back onto the running boards, Decima and Terminus stared back into the engine compartment. The tiny red wire peered back at them innocently.
Decima turned to look at his boss, who gave him the go ahead with a simple nod.
“Okay, you little son of a bitch. You’re someone else’s problem now,” Decima said, under his breath, reaching in with his wire cutter.
The small wire snapped easily between the sharp blades. Instantly, a spark erupted from the black box. Neither of the mechanics had time to react as they were enveloped in flames.
From the road several miles away, a patrol of CRK soldiers watched in shock as a mushroom cloud rose into the sky above.
“Shit, shit!” the lead Knight screamed, fumbling for his headset. “Headquarters! Come in. We have a situation. Over.” Static sounded for a few short seconds before anyone responded on the other line.
“Headquarters here. It’s almost 1:00 a.m.; what kind of situation do you guys have? Over,” a tired operator muttered.
“I don’t give a shit what time it is, get the Commanding Knight of District 1 on the line. We’ve lost a Biomass trolley. Over,” the Knight coughed into his headset.
“Roger. I’m sorry, sir. Right away,” the civilian responded, breaking proper radio procedure.
“Let’s move out, men. Check the area for any survivors, but be ready for any TDU, this could be a trap we’re walking into,” the lead Knight ordered.
He watched his patrol head through the dead forest, the inferno in the distance glowing in the reflection of his blue goggles. He shook his head and followed his men. “Damn rebels.”
Time: 7:41 a.m. January 30, 2071
Location: Trolley Station #14. Lunia, Tisaia
Paulo sat at Trolley Station #14, waiting for a passenger train to take him to work. He was already running late and didn’t need another write up to further ruin his already dreary life. As he waited he pulled out his small blue screen tablet and read The Lunia Post. The tablet and subscription was just another one of the “perks” given to State workers. He would have preferred to read a paper copy of the Post, but the State had done away with all paper documents that weren’t for official business years ago.
He thumbed through the news, or what the State deemed news. On the front page was a story about a skirmish with some stragglers outside the walls who tried to make their way into Lunia through old storm drains. There was another story about a new policy SGS had implemented, requiring all State employees to continue education in their respective work areas for at least 50 hours a year.
What’s that going to help accomplish?
He sighed and put the tablet back into the bowels of his coat. The news was predictable, the same stories appearing in every edition with the occasional inspirational piece tied in. Paulo was no longer part of the State’s targeted audience. He had slipped beyond, reading between the lines and becoming increasingly bitter every day.
The tunnel was dark, illuminated only by a few red lights. One flickered intermittently, reminding him of the red lights from the train stop in his hometown. Like a subliminal warning, the light blinked—the red radiance shedding an eerie glow on the other State workers lining up on the platform.
The trolley, which was already running five minutes late, was nowhere to be seen.
That’s odd, this trolley is always on time.
Paulo quickly lost interest in the absent train and returned to people-watching. To his right sat a middle-aged businessman. The dark black suit and bright red sunglasses hugging the rims of his eyes gave him away. Paulo had seen his type before, but rarely at a trolley station. Most businessmen did not work for the State, but rather for companies developing new technologies that the State did not have the infrastructure or resources to develop. These businessmen mostly lived in the Commons Area with the other State workers, but some of them had built enough wealth to live outside the Commons and in gated communities.
Paulo chuckled under his breath. He remembered a time he was actually envious of these men and their fancy cars that broke the energy laws State workers were forced to follow. And why wouldn’t they? It was all a game. The wealthy gave a share of their profits to the State by transferring funds to the Legislature and high level officials. In turn, they were not forced to follow the strict laws the State imposed on its workers and citizens. If a Knight stopped them, they would simply show their identification card and be allowed to proceed.
Businessmen rarely ventured out; many had been robbed or kidnapped in an upsurge of violence in the past few years. That’s what really surprised Paulo about this one. He had seen them in trolley stations before, but usually with armed guards and an entourage of staff. This one, however, was traveling solo.
Paulo shrugged it off, glancing back down at his watch. The train was 11 minutes late, but there was nothing he could do about it. He pulled his tablet out again to pass the time and opened an article that actually interested him.
“New Biomass Production.”
He scanned through it, reading that a new Biomass factory was producing enough Biomass in a month to fuel all of Tisaia for another 15 years.
The red flicker of the light snapped him back to reality, and he watched as the inconvenienced patrons began to get nervous, several of them shuffling back and forth on the platfor
m. Paulo glanced over at the businessman again and noticed he was still staring at the train tracks, unmoved from his position. A wave of anxiety shot through Paulo’s old body.
He stiffened and stood patiently, his eyes desperately scanning the tunnel before stopping on a sign that read, “Report Suspicious Activity to the CRK, Your Friends and Your Protectors.”
Paulo grinned. Yeah right, like I’d tell those Tin Cans if I saw anything suspicious.
The train was now over 17 minutes late and Paulo began to make his way through the crowd. Unlike these other workers, he could not afford to be late to work. He was going to try and make it to the office on foot. It was only five blocks away, and with about 15 minutes to spare here, he could make it if he hustled. He knew the excuse of a late trolley would not be acceptable to his boss.
Paulo pushed his way through the crowded station, catching a glimpse of a fully armored CRK foot soldier standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the street above. The soldier stood there frozen, like a statue; his rifle at his shoulders, resting perfectly on the skin of his gmetal armor. A shudder went down Paulo’s back as he saw the soldier, but he didn’t know why. For the most part contact with the CRK was an everyday occurrence, but today it frightened Paulo more than it normally would. The flickering red light, the late train, the out of place businessman, and now a soldier only reminded him he constantly lived in a state of fear.
The top step came into view just as he heard the whining of the trolley’s engine. He turned in time to see the crowd move forward, the lump of people pushing their way closer to the tracks to ensure a seat on the trolley.
Just my luck.
He turned to head back down the stairs, his back slightly hunched over, clutching the hand rail of the stairway. As he took another step, a voice screamed out over the commotion. “He’s got a gun!”
Paulo turned and scanned the crowd desperately, in time to see the businessman he had been sitting next to point a machine gun at the crowd. Deafening gun shots echoed off the concrete tunnel walls. Instinctively he dropped to the concrete, the stale taste of dust finding its way into his open mouth.
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