The Misrule series Box Set

by Andy Graham

  “Back off on the Bucket jokes then.”

  Nascimento shrugged. “Wouldn’t have been able to make it if you could count like normal people.”

  Before Ray could reply, Orr shouted, “I see Captain Electric’s still on his top secret no-show-no-go plan.” Orr was standing right next to where the now red-faced private Toorn was attempting his latest exercise. “Which fundamental movement pattern is he functionally stabilising this week?”

  “His primal spirals,” Nascimento called back.

  The gym echoed with cheers and jibes as private Toorn fell off his dumbbell. Ray fought back his own laughter. It stabbed at the base of his spine. Above where Toorn was disentangling himself from bouncy balls and rubber bands, the lopsided wall-screen was showing a repetitive montage of clips. An old military recruitment vid of a soldier staggering out of a ruined castle, a wounded colleague slung across his shoulders, alternated with motivational statements given by fading athletes and adverts for all kinds of things that were, apparently, essential for the survival of the human race. The wall-screen flashed a few times as Orr changed the channel off the auto-feed. It buzzed through a few channels of dated music, past a report of another power station being taken off-line, and settled on a middle-aged man at a conference. He was speaking straight to the camera, his wavy grey hair shaking every time he pounded his fist on the lectern.

  “Nothing is fixed! Nothing is forever!” David Prothero boomed, the size of his voice at odds with his frame. “The government is closing the mines. We can fight it. We will fight it.” A muffled cheer went up from the crowd on the screen. The camera cut to and from a furtive, nervous looking group of citizens in seconds. Prothero’s voice distorted in the speakers. “Lives depend on it. Our country depends on it. Coal is our future. Energy is what binds us, feeds us, homes us. Together we can—”

  Orr muted the wall-screen. “There’s your man, Franklin.”

  “He’s not my man,” Ray said wearily. “Once. Just once, I said he speaks more sense than the others. How does that make him ‘my man’?”

  “Once?” Nascimento asked. “Can you count to once, Franklin?”

  Ray flew him the eagle. Brooke joined them, dabbing at the fresh grazes on her shoulders with a towel. “Wake up. They’re all the same, political clones. The only difference is the colour of their ties. He does have a certain charisma to him, though,” she added.

  “Are you serious?” Ray exclaimed. Slightly jowly, Prothero and his rumpled brown suit stood out from the sharply dressed figures on the podium with their incandescent teeth. A pocket watch chain ran across his waistcoat.

  “If he were younger, yes, but even now there’s something indefinable about him.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t know. That’s why it’s indefinable.”

  “You’ve gone Skovsky on me, Brooke.”

  “Listen, my broken, naive friend.” She trailed a fingernail down Ray’s cheek. He felt it tingle all the way to his feet. “Charisma and charm outweigh policy in politics. Just like people vote according to feelings rather than fact. Always have, always will.”

  “He’s the only one coming out with new ideas these days,” Ray protested.

  “New? He’s resurrecting ideas the other lot tried to bury. Anyway, it’s easy to promise things when you don’t have to deliver.” She pointed her damp towel at the screen. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he manufactured this row over coal so he could appear indignant and outraged. It gives him more ammunition. Either that, or he’s useless and didn’t see it coming.”

  “He got prohibition repealed; that’ll do for me,” Orr said with a shrug.

  “For the love of— Is that it?” Brooke slammed the water bottle down on a bench. “You’re the newbie here, Sub-Corporal Baris Orr. You tell Captain Electric to put some trousers on. Those knitting needles Toorn’s got sticking out of his shorts make my eyes want to bleed.”

  “You tell him.”

  “I outrank you, rook.”

  Orr looked to be a prayer’s breath away from spitting at her. Instead he took what for him was the diplomatic solution and said, “Shut your stinking hole before I stuff this remote so far down it you’ll be changing channels every time you wipe your arse.”

  “Wow,” Nasicmento said to Ray. “He’s good.”

  “Or brave.”

  “More like stupid.” The old friends high-fived each other.

  “If I stand on tiptoes you’ll never reach my mouth. Not without a stepladder.” Brooke flashed Orr a humourless grin and stalked off back to the mats where Sub-lieutenant Grunndul was recovering from his wrestling lesson. Orr threw the remote on the floor and headed for the dusty end of the dumbbell rack. Within seconds he was grunting and heaving and swearing, and Nascimento was staring down his barbell.

  Ray cursed. X517. White Plague. Stella’s refusal earlier today. Now this. He’d hoped the usual gym banter would be an antidote to the last twenty-four hours. It was everything but. The small weight room the 10th Legion had to themselves felt emptier than normal, the laughter forced. No one had touched the kettle bells in the corner. They’d been Hamid’s thing, just as the mats were Brooke’s world and the barbells Nascimento’s.

  The big man had moved quickly into his work sets, pausing to yell at one of the rooks to explain to him the exact difference between a squat and a back squat. The worried tightness across his face had eased, replaced by the red-faced struggle he claimed was better than any medication.

  Captain Electric stood on a balance board. As Toorn wrapped bands around his arms and legs in a complicated weave, Ray became aware of someone standing over him. Orr did a double take. His dumbbells thudded to the floor as he saluted.

  “At ease, Orr,” said Aalok. “We don’t stand on ceremony in the 10th the same way as the other legions. You’ll get used to it. Just remember that normal regs still apply when we have guests. Get Brooke for me, please.”

  The blocky man nodded.

  “How’s your back, Franklin?” Aalok asked as they watched Orr make a detour to push Private Toorn off his balance board.

  “Still smarts a bit, but it’s fine, sir.”

  “Good, we’ve got a meeting at the end of the week about the Donian mission. And a Dr Swann has sent a message. She’s found you a medic who can help, whatever that means. I’ve authorised the passes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your appointment with me about what happened in the Mennai power plant is at 0800 on Wednesday.”

  Ray had hoped Captain Aalok would have forgotten their private talk. Brooke was right: he was naive. Aalok waited for her and Orr to arrive before speaking.

  “I’ve heard rumours it’s Hamid’s sit-in a few days from now,” Aalok said, as Nascimento stacked the plates and wiped his bar down. “Am I right in thinking I’ll have to ask for volunteers not to turn up?”

  “Please, don’t do that, sir.” Ray.

  “You do that here?” Orr.

  “We started doing it recently.” Nascimento.

  “We?” Brooke shot him an angry look. “It was Hamid’s idea. Seeing as most of the military come from your Free Towns, he thought it appropriate.”

  Aalok’s considering gaze took in the group. “Am I going to have to volunteer someone not to do this? The commanders are prepared to turn a blind eye to one or two of you turning out, but I’m not sure how they’ll react to the entire squad.”

  “Captain, Hamid deserves this,” Ray said.

  Aalok hooked his thumbs behind his broad leather belt and looked at them each in turn. “OK,” he said. “I told them I would speak to you. Just don’t come looking for me when it all goes belly up.”

  Aalok left the squad standing by the door like school kids outside the principal’s office.

  “That went well.” Nascimento.

  “Least we got unofficial permission.” Ray nudged a despondent Brooke in the ribs.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” Orr.

  “Depends.” Na
scimento wrung some of the sweat out of his top. “If you get caught at the sit-in, the base commanders discipline you. Lots of up-downs, probably. Or rat-rations for a week.”

  “And if we don’t do the sit-in?”

  Nascimento nodded towards Brooke. “She shoves that remote so far up your arse that you’ll be changing channels every time you pick your nose.”

  13

  Vulnerable Old People

  Ray hunched his shoulders against the autumn cold. The fine early morning mist clung to his clothes, chilling him to his marrow. At least it was better than the thick fog of his childhood which had left many coughing up black flecks.

  Tye, the older half of the city where Ray was waiting for this doctor Swann had found, was a lonely place. He stood in the shadows of the remains of the Palaces of Democracy and the Clock Tower, relics from before the Silk Revolution. The clock stared balefully over the city walls, silenced forever, its voice melted down to make weapons. The Resistance’s codename for the Clock Tower had been Cyclops. They might as well have called it Tick-Tock Tower, it was so obvious. A drop of rain slid down his neck, dragging a shiver with it. “Why here?” he muttered. “Why not somewhere warm?”

  The back end of autumn was a gloomy time. The nights were drawing in, the sun slower to get going in the morning. Temperatures were dropping. The rain couldn’t decide what it wanted to do. It was irrational but it irritated him — the transition to winter, the bit in the middle. What unsettled him more was that the dead city of Tye was abuzz with activity. The place was usually deserted but the early-morning street Ray stood in was crawling with police. With all due respect to his colleagues in law enforcement, it reminded him of flies on a corpse. One of the alleys leading to the Clock Tower was cordoned off, red and blue lights flashing off the crumbling brick walls of the Palaces of Democracy.

  “A body,” Ray had been told by a bored officer. “Fourth in as many months. Another woman shaved from head to toe.”

  Ray shuddered. Death was one thing, but who could do that to anyone? And why?

  At the end of the street a vehicle turned out of the road leading from the old docks. It was stopped. ID checked. Waved on. Ray pulled his collar up tighter against the rain, keen to be away from this place. “You?” he said when the car juddered to a halt.

  “All the real doctors were busy. Are you getting in or are we walking?”

  South of the river, the city of Effrea was dragging itself out of bed. Metal shutters rattled up past shop windows. People staggered to work, clutching bucket-sized coffee cups in shaking hands, dodging the mop-bots that cleaned the streets. Stella drove through the blackened arch of the old Gunpowder Tower. Cracks like thread veins traced their way along the stone. Some had been clumsily plastered over giving the stone a blotchy, diseased look. There was graffiti, too, most of it revolving around former presidents. ‘De Lette’s a foreign bastard.’ ‘Edward De Lette resides within.’ ‘Hamilton does young boys.’ The last had been scrubbed off and rewritten several times.

  It was an odd way out of the capital but Stella maintained it was the quickest, now they couldn’t leave via Tye. Not quick enough. The awkward silence was becoming unbearable. It wasn’t helped by her perfume. The scent reminded him of Brooke and that made him feel more awkward. That’s irritated, unsettled and awkward, all before breakfast. Since when did you get so soft? he thought. He asked Stella about the murders to break up the quiet. She said it was too morbid. So he tried polite conversation. That failed, too.

  “I don’t see the point of small talk,” Stella said. “Talk about something worthwhile or keep quiet. Weather, fashion and tittle-tattle are not worthy topics.”

  “The murders, then?”

  “Just told you, too grim. I see enough dead people at work. Not really the point of medicine, but it happens.”

  “So what do you want to talk about, Doctor Swann?”

  “Stella will do unless you want me to call you Corporal Pedant. Tell me about your job.”

  “Bombs and bullets, mainly. The rest is just filler. We do a lot of running. A lot of running. Up-downs, too.”

  “You don’t do a lot of words by the sounds of it. Sentences either.”

  “What’s that mean?” Ray asked.

  “That this is going to be the longest ninety-minute journey of my life.”

  Ray rested his hands on his lap, deliberately not fidgeting as he planned his next move. Brooke had knocked on his door late last night with advice on how to unravel the mystery about his brother, Rhys. The individual rooms the 10th were assigned were small. Orr had complained there wasn’t enough room to strangle a cat in his. Last night, with Brooke sitting on his bed, Ray’s room had seemed smaller and warmer than usual. Brooke must have felt it, too. She had only been wearing a thin top and loose trousers that hid just about nothing.

  “What does X517 mean?” Ray blurted out.

  Brooke had recommended side-stepping subtle and going for the direct approach. She had added it worked for her. Usually.

  “I don’t know,” Stella replied. “A military code for something, I suspect. Nothing I’m allowed access to.”

  “What, though? A designation or a category? A punishment? A place, possibly? Could be a hospital ward or some kind of medical thing.”

  “And, therefore, I should know what it is?”

  The gates came into view. The first set of barriers lowered to allow Stella’s car into the processing area.

  “You might not be a White Plague doctor but you’re still a doctor.”

  “And that makes me omnipotent? Just because I’m good at one thing doesn’t give me intellectual authority over everything.”

  The uncomfortable silence settled back over them as they waited for the Gate Keepers to finish with the vehicle in front.

  Her pass got them through the gates with next to no hassle. The gate sergeant even forced an obsequious smile onto his face before he realised who was in the passenger seat. Ray waved back cheerily as they drove off. Outside the walls, the roads soon deteriorated. The blacks, greys and silvers of the city were replaced by a countryside that appeared to be rusting.

  Stella cleared her throat. “You were right. Up-downs don’t get any easier.”

  “You’ve tried them?” Ray was genuinely shocked.

  “With an umbrella and dustbin lid instead of a rifle and shield.”

  He smiled, despite himself. “Nice touch. And?”

  “Never again. The day after wasn’t too bad, but the day after that every muscle and tendon in my body was screaming at me. I know why it happens but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.”

  “The pain’s all in your mind.” He opened the window to drive out the scent of her perfume.

  “I’m glad you were listening,” she said, laughing. “You’re not entirely correct, though. It’s not just about the brain, the body’s also important, as is the immune system. It would be helpful if we could stop thinking of these things as competing organisms fighting over the same person.”

  “This again?” Ray rolled his eyes. “What is it with you and your self-appointed role as the champion of truth? Why don’t you just stop the car and bang out a set of prayer squats? They fix everything.”

  “I didn’t say that. Please don’t twist my words to suit your argument. That’s a straw man in a cheap suit and you’re better than that.”

  “Do you feel good about yourself, telling it like it is and educating the Bucket-born? Dreaming up random codes and labelling people with them?”

  The car screeched to a halt. Red lights flashed across the dash board and Stella slapped the automatic SOS beacon off. “Listen, Corporal Pedant. I’ve told you I don’t know anything about this X123 code of yours.”

  “X517.”

  “Whatever. My profession is full of meaningless acronyms and alphabet spasms. It’s also full of professionals perpetuating myths that keep being reinvented and resold. People who are clinging onto unfounded beliefs through laziness, fear, ignorance or
greed. This is despite the advances we’ve made and the legislation that has been enacted.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like for people like me? I’m expected to think and be resourceful, but not think too much or stray too far from the prescribed guidelines. Yours is not the only job where mistakes cost lives. As doctors and nurses, we are never allowed to forget our responsibilities, either.”

  She held up a finger to silence him. “I want to make a difference but I can’t be seen to be making too much of a difference. I certainly don’t do it for the money. You can earn more growing these wretched muse berries than you can as a medic, especially if you have an interest in research, like me. It seems the higher your qualifications, the less you earn these days; and the more questions you ask, the less people want to answer. Unless you can somehow break the safety glass ceiling hanging over all of us so-called intellectuals.”

  Ray bit back the words brewing in his mouth. She’s here to help, he thought, remember that and behave like an adult. “Aren’t all doctors well paid?” he asked in a more conciliatory tone.

  “Not the case anymore.” She gripped the steering wheel. “I have my own theories as to why the government is discouraging further education with higher fees and lower pay, but I’m not sure I like them.”

  The window rolled closed and the car started moving again. They bounced over a concreted lump that looked vaguely like a small cat.

  “I don’t have all the answers, Ray, but I’m not pretending to know all the answers either. I’m going out on a limb here for you, so will you please cut me some slack?”

  As the silence settled back across them, he stared at the soft morning glow spilling across the barren fields. Had people ever lived here? If so, what had happened to them? He could imagine the outline of houses, villagers disappearing in and out of view. How many other empty fields hid secrets like Axeford and New Town?

  “So why are you here?” he asked as the capital disappeared over the horizon. “Apart from your mission to prove everything I’ve ever known to be true is now wrong? You’re beginning to remind me of...”