Recognition lit in his eyes, and he nodded.
“Why do you remember the Institute?” Malcolm shrugged slightly and Kaylee furrowed her brow. She paced around for a few minutes, considering what to do. Malcolm watched her quietly as she did.
Eventually, she spun towards him, hair bobbing behind her and a wide grin on her face. “Well then. We’ll just have to go there and figure things out.”
Malcolm craned his head upward and looked back at Kaylee.
“How you ask?” Kaylee interpreted. “Leave that to me.” She put both hands on his shoulders, and this time he made no effort to resist. “You’ve saved my life more than once. I owe you. We’ll figure this out, okay?”
Malcolm’s shining eyes stared out at her, and she could see flecks of his bright white hair spilling out of his wide-brimmed, tattered hat. She smiled at him, and when she did, she could have sworn that a return smile glittered in his eyes
Chapter 34: Upward Mobility
Dark shapes spilled into the streets, only momentarily awed by the brilliant night sky they had not seen for twelve years. Through back alleyways devoid of traffic and clutter they sprinted, scattering as efficiently as possible with non-specific locations in mind. The occasional vehicle sent them ducking into doorways and scrambling to find some kind of cover, but there were no large trash receptacles or piles of debris to hide behind. Only by the lax and carefree attitude of the Citizens did they remain undetected. That and a lack of evening traffic.
The streets were in pristine condition, made of what looked like some kind of translucent, synthetic material, scattering and reflecting the light thrown by the golden-colored streetlamps. Only a few vehicles traversed the roads, whether by lack of widespread ownership or some other reason, they didn’t know. The soldiers marveled at the grass and moderate-sized trees, almost forgetting about the yawning empty space of filth and decay only a few meters beneath their feet as they ran through a small park.
They viewed everything with hints of awe, but they didn’t linger, remembering a few of the words of their commander, who called himself by just ‘Rick.’
“Now remember, when you get up there, you’re going to see some things that you haven’t in a long time. Take a quick look, and let it remind you of what you’re fighting for. However, I swear to God, whether or not he exists, that if I catch anyone staring too long, they’ll be seeing some real stars.” A little chuckle, half out of nerves, had rippled through the ranks.
Everyone thought this mission was crazy, but when Rick told them about the Citizenship plan to try and kill everyone quietly without fuss by gassing them, they all agreed that doing some damage first would be preferable.
“I know this plan sounds half-baked,” Rick had confided, “but it’s our best shot, and if they’re half as lazy about defense as they are about attacking, we just might make some noise.”
He told them one last thing before releasing them to their tasks. “Do what you can, and find somewhere to hide. We can’t stand up to their large body of troops. The best we can do is make a mess and hope they can’t clean it up too quickly.” They nodded, and set off.
Through the night they ran, cool air passing over them, bright lamplight showing only black shapes and dark shadows. A quick glance at the hour revealed that it was almost time to cut loose and bring hell to Haven.
******
A bored technician by the name of Bernard stared lazily at the screens. Dozens of sensors and a quantity of cameras scattered about Haven created what was jokingly referred to as a ‘grid of compliance.’ The sensors detected heat signatures, and was used by the Inquisition for various things.
The main reason, as they claimed, was to clear people out so that night-staff servants could clean the streets of various sectors when necessary. It was found that people were generally uncomfortable being around when dozens of these half-mindless drones ambled through the streets picking up trash and scrubbing the sidewalks.
Of course, this meant that they had a means of detecting the presence of lingering folks with surveillance for confirmation. A dispatch of Inquisitors on patrol could then stop by and politely ask people to move along. This had been happening for a couple of years, so most Citizens grew accustomed to it and ended up indoors by a decent hour anyway. To accommodate and encourage this attitude, most housing complexes had their own social gathering places, bars, clubs, and other entertainment pavilions. Even the taxi services were required to discontinue in the evening, and driving late at night was discouraged.
The system also assisted to keep an eye on any potential criminal activity, which still occurred from time to time. It was tied into a network of Institute-provided security systems. They seemed pretty keen on eliminating any hint of any riff-raff as quickly as possible, and it made sense. Citizen Bernard could remember back when the separation started, and he wholeheartedly agreed that certain people didn’t deserve rights.
It didn’t bother Citizen Bernard that infrareds and cameras could see into every sector of the city, making it possible to monitor every aspect of the outdoor lives of the Citizens. It made decent sense to him, and he figured it wouldn’t bother him if he remained a good and loyal Citizen. What he and most others hadn’t heard was that there were plans brewing in the Inquisition office to outfit the interiors of certain buildings with similar extensive security measures, even though the crime rate had nearly dropped to nothing. The Inquisition even wanted to outfit every Citizen with a personal tracking device so that every one of them could be located at any necessary point. Registrations, tags, and dozens of other proposals about invading privacy in favor of security were among Inquisition discussion that Bernard, and everyone else not affiliated with the policing body, was entirely unaware of.
As time went on, there was less and less to worry about and report on from the security center. Certain systems became programmed and automated to detect the signs and patterns of a disturbance or to keep track of which sectors were scheduled for cleaning, and the presence of graveyard-shift technicians became less necessary.
Someone still had to be there to keep an eye on everything. Over the years, staffing had shrunk down to be one person during the night shift. Half of the workers slept through it, which seemed just fine, and Bernard himself was known to take a nap or two if the situation called for it.
When he heard the faint tone of disturbance warning he felt a flare of irritation, as the stupid machine probably malfunctioned in some fashion again and needed recalibration. Damn thing’s too sensitive, he thought. He opened his eyes and glanced up at the screen. A long train of heat signatures had spilled out of a building in the west-central sector of the city, near to the business district.
For several seconds he stared at the rapid movement of the group, cutting down empty streets clearly trying to avoid contact with other people. He punched in some keys and a monitor popped up that displayed a surveillance shot. Running figures, wearing black.
He rifled through log sheets and stacks of other miscellaneous papers on the desk, trying to see if there was some memo from the Inquisition about something going on. He remembered a few nights prior when one of the other workers had called in about some big group moving near the Institute, which turned out to be a group of soldiers going on a planned raid.
Better safe than sorry, he thought, reaching for the phone. Just before he grabbed it, another warning chime sounded. Another location, still in the business district, a distance east of the previous one, displayed dozens of heat signatures spilling out into the streets.
A cold sweat broke over his body and he reached for the phone once more, a growing apprehension gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He picked up the receiver and jumped as a third sound came through. His jaw dropped as it returned to the first location, and another large group moved into the streets.
This can’t be good, he thought, finally grasping the phone and punching in the numbers to contact the Inquisition dispatch office.
******
&nb
sp; Rick didn’t think he’d ever been this clean in his entire life. He felt supremely awkward, crammed into a procured gray business suit that felt surprisingly comfortable, considering it was stolen and not fitted for him. In reality, anyone with knowledge of fitting or fashion could see the loose spaces, the too-wide shoulders on the jacket, and the pant cuffs that dragged too low.
His hair and face were cleaned and scrubbed almost raw. He used almost an entire bar of soap, emerging from the room, looking awkward in the unfamiliar clothing, impeccable. Even his fingernails were clean.
Five minutes after the initial groups left, a pair of individuals, including Rick himself, came out of the exit points, disguised in respectable clothing. They each carried a sidearm, but his companion, one of his best soldiers, named Jonathon, carried a briefcase containing something with a little more punch.
Rick walked along, patting the slight bulge on his left side. His .45’s presence reassured him much more than the disguise did. He felt like a shining neon light glared all around him, emblazoned with the word, ‘spy.’ In reality, he looked fairly normal and innocuous. His appearance was very average and nondescript so that, without actually calling attention to himself, he was unlikely to be remembered.
However, his disguise aside, he looked tense. He kept putting his hands in his pocket, taking them back out and wiping them on his pants legs, glancing around in all directions, looking for men clad in black sprinting in his direction to put an end to the entire thing. If anything, it was his suspicious demeanor and not his clothing that would call unwanted attention.
“I’m not cut out for this espionage crap,” he muttered. The solider with him, Jonathon, chuckled. Rick marveled at how at ease the guy was, but didn’t comment on it. Maybe he doesn’t think we’re as screwed as I do, he thought. How are we going to keep ourselves from getting executed once the Citizens sort it out?
Rick himself didn’t believe it for a second, but both Victor and Elijah had insisted. They said it would work, provided enough chaos and rioting happened to destabilize the regime and its people. Rick still doubted it.
That was the main objective of the other groups, the bulk of the forces led by Sergei and Isaac. Their job was to create panic, drive Citizens into the streets, and anything else they could do to make a mess of the surface and its population. Sergei, especially, seemed a little too excited by this task, but he and his soldiers were adept at creating panic in their foes.
Rick’s objective was the Institute, and, according to Elijah’s information, the security there was restrictive of letting unauthorized people in but lax enough that so that proper application of force would be successful. This, of course, was provided that greater numbers of armed Inquisitors and any other soldiers or officers were off elsewhere responding to something else. This was yet another ‘provided’ that made Rick uncomfortable with the plan. Too many variables to account for, and too many things hinging on too many specific enemy troop reactions, he thought.
At least with the defense plan of recent days, there had been room for alteration and adaptation. Striking into unfamiliar territory with a limited number of troops. Attacking the actual objective with only a vague idea of how many enemy forces would be present, while the remaining group harasses the population to try and distract another unknown number of foes. Rick shook his head once more. I guess it’s better than dying like rats in the gutter, he thought.
“Something wrong, boss?” Jonathon asked, hands in the deep pockets of his trench coat.
Rick gave a thin smile, “Nope. Everything’s a-okay.” He checked his watch. “Should be starting soon.”
“Good,” Jonathon glanced at his own timepiece, “I never liked wearing a suit.”
From where they were, walking down the sidewalk, they could see the spire of the Institute rising above the buildings, easily the tallest structure in Haven. That and the rest of the Institute didn’t comprise more than a few floors, so it especially towered above the immediate vicinity.
Finally, they passed out of the business sector and crossed a street. They sat down on a small bench, and, off to their right, they could see the target. The Institute building lay flanked by a large park. Grass, small trees, rows of shrubs and several flower beds could be seen in the vicinity.
The Institute was only a couple hundred yards away from where they sat, and looking it over, Rick let out a low whistle. Only a couple of guards with sidearms at the few entrances they could see. Good God, he thought, Elijah was right; they don’t seem to be worried about security. One was at the end of the left wing of what he assumed was one of the civilian research sectors. Another in the front at the primary entrance that led into the main lobby. On each of the southern arms of the cross were bulky additions that were used for onsite housing with various unguarded entrances. The people guarding looked bored and non-threatening, easy to deal with. I suppose nothing ever happens here, he thought.
Past the first arm they could see extending into the park, Rick, squinting, could make out the northern section. He knew that the top half of this double-armed cross was purely for the Inquisition headquarters. He shook his head. Offices spread around the city and a central HQ meant lots of places for trained, armed people to swarm from.
“Not too worried about trespassers, are they?” His companion remarked, regarding at the lack of outside security.
Rick shook his head, “They’ve never had to really worry about it before.”
He did wonder about a long, squarish building a few hundred feet in front of where he sat. It was nestled firmly into the park with no apparent sidewalks, clearly set apart from the Institute. It looked to him like a barracks. He frowned.
“I’m going to check that out,” he whispered to Jonathon, who nodded in response.
Rick casually glanced in both directions. Seeing nothing to indicate any spectators, he sprang from the bench out of the useful range of the street lamp. He jogged, the grass soft and springy beneath his feet, and pressed up against the side of the building. It struck him as odd, but there were no windows. He sidled along the left, the direction away from the line of sight of the side entrance of the Institute. Along the back there was a plain door, again windowless.
As quietly as he could, he gradually twisted the knob and pulled the door, which gave the slightest of whines as it cracked open. He peered through the opening, a bit of illumination from an outdoor light spilling onto the tile floor in front of him.
A soft glow emanated through square windows set into double doors opposite him, allowing him to see the outlines of shelving units and objects. A supply closet? Up above, dangling from the ceiling, a bare bulb and short chain. Opening the door an inch wider and squinting, he could see towels, buckets, and bottles of what he guessed were cleaning products.
It clicked in his brain. This must be the Institution servants’ quarters. That’s why it’s tucked back here, out of the way, with no windows. No servile rubbish to insult the eyes, he thought. Rick slid into the room, curiosity getting the better of him. Stepping softly, he moved across the small room and inched his way over to the dusty glass.
A couple of rows of bunk beds stretched out in the next room, and he could see the motionless shapes of sleeping figures sprawled out upon them. From what he could see, it looked like roughly half of the beds were empty. Rick assumed that night time was probably when a lot of the cleaning was done. At the far end of the barracks, he could see a pair of well-lit openings. One had a unisex bathroom symbol on it, and from a rough distance estimation based on his exterior observation, he guessed that the bathroom included showers but not very many.
He wondered what the other opening was for when a face appeared from the side opposite him. Startled, he jerked back, tripping and landing hard on his rear. He edged his way backwards, looking up at the window.
The face of a woman with short-cropped hair stared down at him. The sight was unnerving, however, as she appeared to be looking through him. Her eyes appeared unfocused, vacant, and
she didn’t move or speak. Slowly, he rose to his feet, her unblinking gaze following him.
He trembled from the surprise, but just observed the woman. Her skin was sallow and lifeless, hanging loose from her bones. Her hair was thin and stringy, and dark circles lay under her eyes. She looked to be either middle-aged or incredibly exhausted. From the lack of obvious age-blemishes, Rick guessed the latter.
“Good God…” he mumbled, unable to look away from the woman, “This is what they do to them…”
The woman spun around, and a shot of panic burned into Rick’s midsection as he feared she would reveal his presence. He jumped forward and peered through the glass, watching her slow, shuffling gait. The woman turned once more and sat down on a bed. Rick breathed a sigh of relief, wondering what made him get so worked up. He shook his head and departed.
When he reached the bench, his companion was wide-eyed, looking rather concerned. At the same time, he tried to appear nonchalant, which made him look even more twitchy and suspicious. It was almost funny, but Rick didn’t feel like laughing.
“What happened?” the Jonathon hissed. “You were gone so long, I thought…”
Rick waved him off, “It’s not a problem, don’t worry about it.” The other man stared at him, expecting more. “Servants not soldiers.” Even as he said the words, a slightly bitter sensation settled in his stomach. Maybe we should be worrying about it, the realization struck. That stuff is sick.
His partner relaxed noticeably, “Oh, okay. Good.”
Rick cast aside the feelings of doubt and bitterness. Worry about it later. We’ll see what can be done for them if we manage to not get slaughtered here, he thought. He glanced at his watch. Not too much longer.
Chapter 35: Making a Mess of Things
Citizen Bernard felt like he was having a heart attack, or a panic attack, or some kind of attack that involved a general, overwhelming sense of alarm. In reality, his heart was working just fine, cheerfully pumping away at what felt like a million miles per hour.
Haven Page 36
