Gates of Cilicia bls-1

by Michael G. Thomas

  “Where is my father?” he demanded.

  “What the hell are you still doing here? Your father is dead!”

  With that revelation, she and her armed group pushed past and vanished behind him. Xenophon stood there, dumbfounded at the news of his father.

  “That’s not true, no way. Come on, get inside!” shouted Glaucon. He tried to move off on his own, but the pain in his lower stomach forced him to reach out for Xenophon. The two moved through the debris and inside the Ecclesia itself. A number of bodies lay on the floor, and he recognised at least three as being members of the Thirty.

  “Father!” he shouted.

  From outside, a gentle crackle of gunfire indicated there was trouble along the perimeter. It sounded like pulse weapons, but at this distance there was no way to be certain. Xenophon slid Glaucon to part of a broken pillar and pulled open his jacket. There were no obvious external wounds, but the skin around the ribs was swollen and bruised.

  “Is it bad?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  Xenophon was already looking for his father. He turned back and double-checked the injuries to his friend.

  “Might just be heavy bruising, could be internal. We need to get you to the medical centre.”

  “Your father?”

  “I can’t see him here, so he must have escaped.”

  A loud noise from twenty metres or so caught Xenophon’s attention. Part of one of the many damaged columns fell along the floor to reveal a group of four people. All of them were on the floor around the rubble. Xenophon ran over, only to find he was moving through blood. The realisation caught him by surprise, and in a confused panic, he slipped and crashed down amongst the bodies. Incredibly, he managed not to damage anything and was able to lift himself up. Around him were the remnants of a bag of some kind. His interest was caught by what looked like a burnt detonator cap.

  Explosives, in here?

  He reached out and grabbed the burnt remains. Placing them in his pocket, he lifted himself back to his feet and moved around the bodies.

  “Any luck?” called out Glaucon. He had already pulled himself up and was starting to slow his breathing.

  “Not sure, looks like a bomb was planted in here.”

  “In the Ecclesia? By whom?” asked Glaucon.

  “That is the real question, isn’t it?” replied Xenophon.

  He scrambled over a pile of debris and spotted a leg from under the broken stone and metal. He grabbed at whatever he could reach and cleared enough to free the person. A slab of masonry covered the torso, and with great effort he slid it to one side to reveal the body.

  “Xenophon?” asked the weak, frail sounding voice of his father.

  He resisted the urge to reach out and grab him. His first aid training kicked in, and he went through the mental list of what to check. The explosion could have caused all manner of damage to his body and moving him might be the final stage before killing him. He was able to speak, was breathing, and there didn’t appear to be any obvious wounds.

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said with the calmest voice he could manage.

  He looked over to his shoulder and spotted a pool of dark blood nearby. He leaned in for a closer look. As expected, it was from a shoulder wound, quite a deep one. He tore off part of his shirt and tied it around the wound area.

  “Serious?” asked Gryllus.

  “Not sure,” he replied.

  As he attached the cloth, he tried to find where the entrance wounds were. It looked like nothing had passed through the body, yet the puddle of blood was still substantial. He started to panic, worrying there might be a severed artery or body part he couldn’t see due to the rubble and dust all around them. The noise outside had started to subside, and he could only hope the attack or whatever it had been was now over.

  “Son, come here,” said Gryllus with a weak voice.

  Xenophon leaned in but continued to look for injuries.

  “Listen, it was Montoya and her guards. Some of us wanted to stand down. She shot two, then a bomber ran in.”

  “What, how were you hurt?”

  “I tried to fight them off, but one had a vest with explosives. He must have detonated it inside the building.”

  “Why? Did Montoya let him inside?”

  Gryllus shrugged.

  “I don’t know. There’s something else, she said more would be here.”

  His eyes flickered, and then he passed out. Xenophon couldn’t tell if it was related to the injury, pain or exhaustion. Glaucon staggered over to the two and bent down to help.

  “We need to get out of here. This isn’t my people. It must be a revolutionary group we haven’t come across.”

  “Maybe, but I bet Montoya is behind it. Take out the Thirty, she can blame whoever she wants and try and claim asylum.”

  “Maybe, or she might be looking to regroup and was removing the competition.”

  A dull crump from an explosion shook the building’s foundations. Dust and small chunks of stonework fell to the ground. The two men reached down to the old man and between them lifted him up. He wasn’t heavy, but it took time for them to drag his wounded figure to the ruptured wall. As they moved, the sound of a battle became louder.

  “He was right, somebody is coming here. We need to get out of this place and fast!” said Glaucon.

  They pushed on and out through the breach. Outside, the dust had turned to smoke from dozens of fires burning through the old buildings. They moved on past a number of dead security guards and down the gentle path that led to the transit station. A dozen heavily armed guards ran past them but paid no attention. Something changed in their wounded patient. Xenophon stopped and looked down to his father.

  “What is it?” asked Glaucon.

  “He’s stopped moving. Put him down.”

  They lowered him to the floor, and Xenophon placed his jacket under his dust-covered body. He leaned over and placed his ear over the man’s mouth. He waited for a few seconds then jumped up in a panic.

  “He isn’t breathing!” he exclaimed.

  Glaucon already had his fingers on the man’s wrist, checking for a pulse. He looked up to Xenophon and shook his head. Xenophon ripped open his shirt and started to massage his heart as he’d learnt years before. Glaucon looked for further signs of injury before he slipped back and slumped to the floor. Xenophon kept pumping away, but to no avail. He glanced over to Glaucon to see him slumped on the floor with a bitter expression on his face. He looked up at Xenophon with an almost apologetic look on his face.

  “It’s too late, forget it. He’s been shot four times in the back, the bastard!”

  Xenophon bent down and rolled his father slightly to the side to find more blood dripping from behind him. He moved him further and tore back the clothing to reveal the entry wounds. His analytical mind was already trying to understand why there had been no exit wound. Only a pulse weapon placed all of the energy and damage in the target area.

  “Laconian weapons,” he sighed.

  He rolled his father back and looked at his face. The blood had already drained from his skin, and his eyes were dull and lifeless. There were no visible marks on his face, but the trauma to his body was obviously more substantial than it looked.

  “What can we do?” asked Glaucon, but his tone was resigned, almost defeatist.

  “It’s pulse weapons all right. If they hit skin, they disrupt tissue around the wound. Nothing can be done to fix that kind of damage.”

  He looked back to the broken body of his father.

  “He’s gone.”

  Another group of security guards ran past. This time they were armed with standard Alliance equipment. Xenophon recognised them as members of the city militia forces.

  They must have been called up to deal with the unrest.

  A series of blasts ripped through the damaged Ecclesia, and several large chunks of masonry flew across the sky. It reminded Xenophon of the final battle on board the Valiant. Images of the explosions and flash
es on that poor ship were burned into his mind, and they rushed back vividly. A shock wave of surprising intensity rippled from the structure, and the outer wall finally gave way under the pressure.

  “I don’t like this, come on!” shouted Glaucon.

  The two stood and Xenophon reached down to drag the body of his father. Glaucon put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He was about to speak, but from the ruined Ecclesia, a dark crowd of people appeared. They pushed through the smoke and towards the thin line of security reinforcements.

  “We don’t have the time, you know this. It’s the mob, and they want revenge. Any member of the Thirty is fair game right now.”

  Xenophon looked down as his father one last time and back to Glaucon.

  “I know, but she’s going to pay for this.”

  Glaucon staggered away, and Xenophon quickly caught up and placed his friend’s arm around his neck so that he could take some of the weight. They moved past three parked security vehicles, and then it was as if nothing had happened. The plaza near the transit station was sealed off, and only four guards were anywhere in sight. They continued towards the entrance to the station and moved inside. The computerised security unit scanned their retinas as they entered and gave them automatic access to the public transport system. Inside the structure was radically different to the classically designed civic buildings that filled the centre of the city.

  “We’ll take a car,” said Xenophon.

  He led the way through the station and towards a ramp that took them down a gentle gradient. At the bottom waited a dozen small vehicles, each about five metres long and cylindrical in shape. He moved to the one at the front of the queue and approached the side. It was already open and exposed to reveal a light leather style interior, gently lit with soft lights. He jumped inside and pulled Glaucon in beside him. The gull wing shaped door slid down quietly behind them, sealing them into the public cab. From the inside, it looked more like a private lounge with comfortable seating and wide windows.

  “Destination?” asked the faceless computer system.

  Glaucon looked to Xenophon then spoke.

  “Attica Main Terminal, take the expressway.”

  “Thank you, our estimated journey time is seven minutes.”

  With an almost unperceivable hum, the vehicle moved from the waiting area and onto the narrow road surface. Other vehicles made their way along the road with military precision. In Attica, it was illegal for manual control of vehicles on public highways. The overwhelming majority of the vehicles on the road were actually haulage and heavy load carriers, each making their way to a myriad of destinations and carrying a great variety of cargos.

  “Main Terminal?” asked a confused Xenophon.

  “Yes, you need to get off the planet. At least for a while.”

  “Don’t you think that is a bit of an over-reaction?” he asked with some degree of scepticism.

  Glaucon shrugged and turned to the side of the vehicle.

  “Computer, show us the public news channel, local network.”

  The wall flickered to life as a number of presenters started to speak as if directly to them both. Neither was interested in what they had to say as the video streams told them the full story. An aerial view of the capital showed columns of protestors occupying the capital buildings, and a great number of fires were burning throughout the streets.

  “How did this happen so quickly?” asked Xenophon.

  “Listen, I don’t think you realise quite how hated the Thirty are. With the military protection of the Laconians gone, it’s like the victims of murder and rape now have access to the prisons. They want vengeance, and they aren’t going to stop, not for a while anyway.”

  “I wasn’t one of them. I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve said it enough yourself. This is now mob rule. Until democracy is fully restored, and order is brought to the streets, you can expect vigilante violence and hangings.”

  Xenophon slumped back and watched out of the windows of the vehicle. They were moving at least ninety kilometres an hour, and scores of other vehicles were doing the same. The further they made it from the capital, the less of a military and security presence could be seen.

  “This isn’t right. There should be city militia forces even out this far.”

  “Xenophon, listen to me. With the Thirty gone, anybody with links to the old regime will be in hiding. Only a fool would stand at his post as the mob runs riot. This is going to get ugly before the end.”

  “Before?” demanded Xenophon angrily. “My father has already seen the ugly end.”

  Glaucon nodded in agreement.

  They sat in silence and watched the live streams from across Attica as news of the departure of the Laconians spread. It started as a number of confused reports and quickly expanded into a vast story that engulfed the planet. Security forces melted away in a matter of less than an hour, and the two watched in amazement as every single major city was absorbed by public demonstration and celebration. It was the end of the oligarchy, and it couldn’t be long before the return of the vaunted democracy. After a journey that seemed to take a whole day, they arrived at the main terminal. They moved from the transit station as quickly as possible. They made it thirty metres before somebody in the crowd recognised the two of them.

  “One of the Thirty! It’s the City Prefect!” shouted a woman. A man nearby reached out and grabbed at Glaucon. In one swift motion, he unhanded the man and threw him backwards.

  “Keep off me,” snapped Glaucon.

  “You, you’re helping him escape!” added the man as he staggered back. He looked to the crowd starting to gather near them.

  “Traitors, both of them!” shouted a woman from the back.

  Xenophon pushed past the people that were milling about near the entrance, dragging Glaucon behind him.

  “Come on, we really don’t want to be here!”

  They moved away and joined the masses of others who, for one reason or another, felt they needed to leave Attica, and fast. The crowds were increasing by the minute, and it was clear that at some point soon, the place would probably have to close, or at the very least restrict the numbers arriving.

  “Is it me, or are there a lot of people who don’t want to stay?” Glaucon asked.

  “We need to get to departures before it fills up!” said Xenophon.

  They ran through the foyer but hit huge crowds for the local transport gates. It seemed most people wanted to escape to the moons or other planets in the system. The local vessels were by far the most common and also the cheapest. A ticket to one of the moons would cost the equivalent of one or two months’ salary. Any further, especially out of the system, could cost ten times more, and a price only the richest could afford. The place was overwhelmed.

  “We can’t stay here. The mob will force this place to be shut down to stop anybody escaping. You need to get out of here,” said Glaucon.

  “Me, what about you?”

  Glaucon smiled, “Look, they want you, not me. I’m not the guy that colluded with the Thirty.”

  “Colluded? I think you underestimate their capacity for anger.”

  As if to emphasise the point, a group of four men moved in to block their way.

  “What?” demanded Xenophon.

  “The shortest of the group took a step closer and held up an identity card. We’re bounty hunters, authorised by the provisional authority to bring in former members of the occupation forces and their accomplices.”

  “Like hell you are,” said Xenophon, who then tried to push away from them. One of the men grabbed his hand and tried to place a pair of handcuffs on him. Another stepped closer to Glaucon to do the same. Xenophon tried to struggle, but two more grabbed hold of him.

  The first bounty hunter slipped the metal frame of the cuff around Xenophon’s wrist and continued speaking.

  “We know who you both are. There’s a bounty out from the provisional authority already. Other members have already been taken i
nto custody.”

  “Yeah, buddy, it’s payback time,” said another.

  Glaucon gave Xenophon a quick look, an almost pleading, questioning stare that only the two friends could ever have identified in such circumstances. They moved quickly into action. First Xenophon pushed the man backwards. As he stumbled, Glaucon flicked out his leg and smashed it behind his knee. The man fell flat on his back with a crash. The two then leapt on their attackers with a ferocity that was completely unexpected. They rained blow after blow on the men until they were on the ground or running. The fourth man fumbled with the baton on his belt, but it was all too late. In less than ten seconds, all four were unconscious and on the floor.

  “We have to move. We’re attracting too much attention.”

  “Where? This will take hours, and they’ll just come and drag us away.”

  They moved from the scene of the fight and ran down the nearest flight of steps that took them to the older part of the terminal. There were less people there, but it was still crowded.

  “Do you have any money?” asked Glaucon, panting from the exertion of the fight and from their running from the scene. They moved to the end of the corridor and took shelter near one of the many automated ticketing machines.

  “One sec,” said Xenophon as he fumbled about in his pocket. For a second he thought it was missing, but then he found it.

  He pulled out his wallet, a small and rather old-fashioned leather item now rarely used by citizens. All that was required these days was the ID card. It gave access to money, security systems and transport. Provided one carried the item, they could carry out all of their day-to-day tasks. Some people were being fitted with biometric chips in their bodies that were doing away with the cards altogether. Xenophon slid out the card and checked it was still in one piece after the scuffle. It was a small plastic device with a large holographic image of his face on it. He held it out and pressed his thumb onto a patch near the base of the card. It flashed three times, and then displayed a simple chart outlining his credit account.