by Amber Jayne
“We will broadcast in fifteen seconds, my Toplux,” said the studio’s manager, a harried-looking but efficient woman who didn’t appear as awed by Aphael’s presence as he would’ve liked. Oh well. Not everyone fell to their knees and quaked when he walked into a room. So long as she did her job, and his image and words went out to every corner of the Safe this evening, he would be satisfied.
Aphael waited, his heavy jaw set, his piercing eyes fixed on the camera standing a few feet away. Something that would have been anxiety in a lesser person tickled briefly in his stomach then vanished.
Red lights switched to green inside the booths arrayed around the small, clear space he occupied. An announcer, half hidden behind a curtain, read a short but appropriately fawning introduction. Then the technician behind the camera steadied the lens squarely on the Toplux’s face and the studio manager gave him an emphatic go-ahead gesture.
“My people,” Aphael Chav began, in a tone both rich and stern, the voice of the judgmental father, “people of the Safe, we are faced with an emergency…”
* * * * *
As the hulking vehicle was off-loading, Virge Temple felt a finger tap her shoulder. She turned on the exit step, fear tightening her innards. Had they figured out she wasn’t who she was pretending to be? If so the consequences would be dire. Maybe even unimaginable. Problem was, she had been imagining them anyway, all during this long haul outward from the Safe’s center.
“Did I hear you say you had furlough?” asked the Guard behind her. He had a chunky head, rather blunt features.
“Yes,” Virge said, realizing belatedly that the question was casual, even friendly.
“Me too.” He gave her a grin. “I’m going all the way to the border. How about you?”
This, then, was the Guard who’d immediately preceded her onto this big transport.
“Come on, up there!” someone behind yelled. “I want off this fucking crate!”
Virge stepped quickly off. The friendly Guard clomped along behind her. They’d traveled some distance. This was a transfer point of some sort, a town she didn’t recognize. Then again, why would she?
“I knew I’d heard you say before you were on furlough,” said the Guard, a stocky male. He seemed eager to keep up the conversation, such as it was. “Then I saw you’d checked your piece, so I figured…” He gestured vaguely.
Piece? Virge pondered that for an instant. Her firearm! Of course. Though this Guard uniform was utterly convincing, there hadn’t been anything Yola Skott’s costume-making pal could do about furnishing her with an authentic Guard weapon.
“Yeah,” she said, “I checked it.” She could see now he carried no pistol on his belt.
He grinned again.
The other Guard members were dispersing over the grounds of the depot where the transport had halted. Other smaller vehicles lay about. Officers and clerks were on hand. Baggage and equipment was being loaded and unloaded. All it would take was for someone to ask her a question she couldn’t answer, demand the proper countersign to a code she didn’t know—and she’d be finished.
The fear of that continued to eat at her. This crazy scheme had worked so far but she had to get out of this place. There were too many Guard around.
“My name’s Tuck Palarch.”
“V-Very nice to meet you.” Virge gave herself a furious mental kick for her nearly fatal slip, then supplied her borrowed name. “I’m Cawd Delfel.”
“Nice meeting you too. Want to get some tea?”
“Uh—”
“Mess is right over there.” Tuck pointed to a building. “Come on. My treat.” He seemed to think this sophisticatedly humorous, laughing at his own joke.
Well, looked like she had another Guard buddy. Might as well make the most of it. He could be useful, the same as Nick Daphral had been.
Virge walked with the stocky man into the mess. She had to consciously restrain herself from running her hand over the stubble on her skull, which was all that remained of her onetime mass of hair.
The mess was a clean, orderly place despite the raised, boisterous voices of the diners. Virge was still struck by how bizarre it was to see Guard members behaving in such a lax, undisciplined, human manner. This could be a group of raucous mechanics on a meal break.
But they weren’t, she reminded herself sharply. These same persons had no doubt, in the course of their duties, terrorized innocent people, inflicted physical harm, all in the name of maintaining the Lux’s stranglehold on the Safe.
Tuck Palarch fetched their teas. They took them to an unoccupied table in the corner. The steam rising from her mug was fragrant. She took a sip, found the flavor strong. None of the weaker stuff most civilians got.
“So, where are you going, Cawd? On your break.”
She had no notion but to travel outward, the farther from the center of Lux power, the better. Maybe it was naïve of her to think that distance would matter in the end, but she had to have some hope.
“Just heading,” she made the same vague gesture as he had earlier, “out. Feel like stretching my legs, so to speak.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “I hear you. My unit was doing maneuvers just outside the Lux city. Over and over, the same drills. Got sick of it. Then this uproar about the Weapon happened and we’ve been on scramble ever since. How about you? What unit you with?”
Virge favored him with a smile that hinted at warmths and secrets. She let her eyelids droop to a sultry half-mast just so he’d get the idea. “Aw, do we have to talk about work, Tuck? I’m on furlough. I want to forget I’m a Guard for a while.”
He saluted her with his tea mug. “I’m for that!” He drank, slurping the stuff noisily. Then his eyes squinted at something on the far side of the mess.
At the same time Virge realized that the others were quieting. A big broadcast screen, which she hadn’t noticed before, was mounted on the wall. A picture appeared, gray and fuzzy until it sharpened into the Lux emblem. Virge frowned. Today wasn’t the normal day for a broadcast, was it? Had she lost track during all the recent chaos that had upended her life?
“Must be something special,” Tuck muttered, setting down his tea, focusing his attention just like everybody else in the building. Even the servers behind the long counter were watching, waiting.
A well-modulated voice recited the prelude, so Virge was prepared when Aphael Chav, white-haired and dapperly attired, materialized on the large rectangle of the screen. All the Guard visibly stiffened. Odd, thought Virge, who had heard some of these very individuals badmouthing the Toplux in vulgar terms aboard the transport. Evidently they responded differently when confronted with an actual image of their leader. Or maybe it was just loyalty.
“My people, people of the Safe, we are faced with an emergency. Unknown to many of you, a very unfortunate incident occurred recently right here at the Citadel. Urna the Weapon, one of our most popular military heroes, disregarded his duties and fled the base. He is AWOL. He is a criminal. Whether he has committed this crime willfully or through accident or ignorance we do not know. We’ve had no contact with him and the massive search we immediately initiated has yielded nothing as yet.”
Next to her, Tuck whispered, “Now everyone’s going to know…” His tone was horrified.
This wasn’t just some Guard broadcast, then. Everyone with access to a screen was seeing this, right now.
The Toplux continued, his penetrating gaze unwavering, his bearing controlled but grave. “We believe that some corrupting influence has damaged Urna in a manner we can only guess at. We also believe that he must have abettors among the citizens of the Safe. Someone, perhaps one or more of you watching me this very instant, has aided the Weapon in this disgraceful act. Whoever you are, I hold you accountable.”
Despite herself, Virge looked momentarily away from the screen. Her hands were suddenly shaking.
“However,” Aphael Chav said, a restrained but powerful ire in his voice now, “since Urna’s illicit allies are unknown t
o us, the punishment for this criminal abetting must for now be meted out to all.” He paused to draw a slow breath. With grim regret, it seemed, he said, “Therefore I am ordering the immediate cessation of electrical power to the whole of the Safe.”
Tuck reached out and took hold of one of Virge’s trembling hands. Glancing aside at him, she didn’t think the Guard was aware he’d done so.
Aphael Chav said, “You will know darkness until Urna either surrenders himself or is turned over to the authorities, by those who are aiding him or by those who know his current whereabouts. My people, it is entirely up to you.”
The screen did not fade back into a gray fuzziness. It simply went black. At precisely the same time the lights in the mess cut out. There followed a pause of several heartbeats, during which breathless silence held the room.
Then a clamor of voices erupted. Virge heard the clatter of a tray hitting the floor, then the crash of a mug shattering. Chairs scraped. She was aware of movement, of cries for flashlights. She heard also renewed cursings made against the Toplux. They were much more vitriolic and, seemingly, more sincere than before.
Virge Temple stayed in her seat and held on to Tuck Palarch’s hand. There didn’t seem to be anything else she could do for the moment.
She felt Tuck lean toward her. “Look, I already arranged ahead for a private car. I’m heading for my hometown. It’s on the border. You really want to head out, you’re welcome to hitch a ride with me. Where I’m going, well, there’s no place more out.” He gave her hand a gentle tug.
Virge nodded, realized how useless that was in the dark, then said, “Let’s go.” The two managed to slip out amid all the confusion.
* * * * *
Stars shone against the clear blue-black. They were beautiful, minute icy points, strewn over the sky’s vault, but they didn’t do much to cast illumination. They had come up to the surface.
“We’re crossing through farms,” Bongo had said. “Don’t want some farmer looking out a window, seeing our lantern bobbing through his fields. He’ll call for the Guard.”
The green-eyed man was maintaining an admirably calm air. Urna, though, heard the tense undercurrents in his voice, detected the tight intakes of his breath—almost like a Shadowflash would. The thought rang with irony in his head.
The strange dream he’d had earlier had sorted itself. The two boys—one lighthearted and ebullient, the other trying to convey some dire news—had, of course, been himself and Rune. Dark-haired, solemn Rune. What a sad, beautiful child.
Only it had been no dream, Urna felt with a growing certainty. It was a memory.
At some point, long past, he and Rune had had that very exchange. The future Shadowflash had been telling him of some danger, some impending crisis they were both going to have to face. But Urna hadn’t wanted to hear. He preferred to disregard any negativity. His blithe responses had frustrated Rune.
That scene had actually happened. The fullness of it hadn’t yet come to Urna. He couldn’t, for instance, recall what jeopardy Rune had been trying to warn him about, but—and this was crucial—Urna now believed that the totality of the memory would return to him, once his mind processed the information sufficiently.
And after that? Would more memories come? Urna was almost positive they would. His brain was stirring. It was a curious feeling.
“Do you need another spell?” Bongo asked. They were following a dirt path.
The withdrawal sickness? Urna hadn’t even yet had to touch the drugs Virge Temple had provided him.
“No. I’m okay.”
Urna realized only then that he hadn’t rolled his eyes at the mention of magic. Maybe, he was willing to admit now, there was something more to the belief than the consolation it no doubt provided its adherents.
How strange.
They continued onward, making for the border town that Kath had specified. Bongo took out his cobalt-blue flask and had another swallow from it. After a time they climbed a brief rise. The border of the farm, Urna guessed. Bongo halted. He was looking forward, out into darkness.
Only it wasn’t quite dark, Urna saw. Off in the distance was a line of light. It was faint, unhealthy-looking. Shiplight. Even this far from it, the fungal radiance seemed to writhe in a grotesque manner. The Safe’s border was still miles away, but for the first time Urna truly felt it was reachable.
“Never seen the Black Ship before?” Urna asked. To him it was a familiar sight, but to someone who’d never actually laid eyes on the monstrous thing, it must be startling, shocking. Terrifying.
“That’s not it,” Bongo said. He shook his head. “Where’s the town? Where are its lights?”
Urna followed his gaze, saw nothing out ahead, just darkened ground. The border town could be there, if it were unlit. But why wouldn’t it have lights?
“The border towns,” Urna said, pondering. “They don’t get much juice, do they?” Really, he wasn’t sure about that. It was something he thought he’d overheard an officer say once. “Maybe, uh, maybe it’s just—”
“There should be some lights,” Bongo insisted. He reached into his coat and this time pulled out a map. Squatting, he laid it out then fired the lantern, huddling around it so that its light couldn’t be seen from any distance. Looking up at Urna after a minute, he said, “Look, I got briefed about this. Thoroughly. They made sure I knew where I was going and how to get there.” He tapped the map. “The town is ahead. It’s right there.”
“But it’s not lighted,” Urna provided unnecessarily.
“No. It’s not. And that scares me.” Despite the admission, the first of its kind he’d made on this trek, Bongo calmly refolded the map, extinguished the lantern and stood. Squaring his shoulders, he said, “Whatever’s going on, that’s where I need to take you. Unless all this changes your mind?” One blond eyebrow lifted in the feeble moonlight.
“Hell no.” Urna grinned. He gave Bongo a friendly shove. “You’re my escort. So—escort me!”
And the two continued on toward the eerily dark town waiting ahead.
* * * * *
The Toplux allowed a satisfied smile to play over his lips. He remained standing before the camera even as the technician manning it stepped back from it. The broadcast was finished. The studio manager, like everyone else, was looking around, bewildered.
They had expected the lights to go out here too, Aphael Chav thought. He nearly laughed at this, but refrained. The smile said it all.
He’d taken a bold action. He’d made the arrangements in advance. The main power relay center had been waiting for his signal. When he’d made his announcement the switches had been thrown. And darkness had come to the Safe.
Not all the Safe, however. The Citadel would still have its electricity, as would the Lux city surrounding it. But everywhere else had been plunged into night just moments ago. Let the people do without lights, without power for cooking, without all the little conveniences they would have been barely aware of until now. Now that they were gone.
To say nothing of the manufactories and repair shops and other industries, big and small, that had now ceased to function. Some among the Lux, who had enterprises outside their city, wouldn’t be pleased, but they would have to suffer it for now, for the greater good. If Urna wasn’t returned soon, however, the backlash would be formidable.
At last, Aphael crossed the studio floor. The manager herself, now evidently quite awed by him, hurried to open the door for him as he exited. She even bowed as she did so, eyes wide with shock at what had transpired in her studio this evening.
He would return to the Citadel’s tower and await results from his gambit. The people would give him back Urna. A hero he might be to them, but they would want their comforts more. Aphael expected a victory.
The Safe, after all, was his. Like Rale, that memory-damaged Weapon he’d taken as a lover, he could treat his property however he wished.
The military complex was already buzzing. They had been put on alert as a precaution. Wh
atever else happened tonight or in the coming days, this most central part of the Safe would be defended. Crossing toward the looming Citadel building, with floodlights still shining all around the grounds, Aphael Chav did at last permit himself a laugh. It was a pleased, sinister sound.
Chapter Fourteen
At first she was unaware of the blackout. Why should she know? Her little place wasn’t even wired for electricity. It was just a shelter—primitive, bleak. In the corner Frank was sleeping. Or else he was just lying there, unmoving. For some time now—months—her brother had given no indications that he knew where he was, or that he even recognized her or any of the others who came here to care for him.
Of course, Arvra Finean wondered, was this really caring for him? If her brother Frank could have a single minute of full mental coherence, would he decide that the useless, irreparably damaged life he was living wasn’t worth anybody’s effort, even his own?
She didn’t know. Nobody knew. Frank, very likely, was never going to have another minute like that. The Guard captain who’d beaten him couldn’t have chosen a worse punishment.
Arvra had sipped a bowl of broth at the small table in the corner opposite where her brother lay. Now she was slowly chewing a hunk of dark bread that, if she didn’t eat it, would be spotted with mold tomorrow. She took small bites, making it last, fooling her stomach into believing it was receiving more sustenance than she was giving it.
You lived in this kind of poverty all your life, you picked up a few tricks, she thought without any particular bitterness.
On the table next to the candle she was burning was a small sheaf of papers. They were salvage and, really, she shouldn’t be keeping them here in the house. But they fascinated her. They had been gathered on one of Frank’s raids. The pages were old, yellowing, barely decipherable. With enough effort, though, she could make out the old print.
