by Andy Graham
“Then, when you are one of those who have lost their jobs, have no education or are crippled by preventable diseases, you’ll be warned for being an undesirable. The warning will become watching and you’ll be put on a list. Before long, the enemy in your own home will be you, without even the vocabulary to resist.”
A young Ray Franklin looked up at his mother. The riot of curls that tumbled down her neck danced in the wind. She turned her brown eyes on him, eyes that had always seemed too old for her, and said, “The apocalypse we should fear isn’t a tsunami, a pandemic or a digital meltdown. It’s an erosion of freedoms, the restriction of thought.”
She took his hand in hers. He squeezed for all he was worth, caught between the rare joy of his mother being home and her desperate words.
“The end of the world is happening, Ray. Ray. Ray—”
“Ray? What’s happening? Ray! Are you OK? Let go of my hand, you’re hurting me. My husband needs help.”
Ray’s eyes snapped open. Blue light sliced through the shadows in the alley. “Stella?”
She yanked her hand free. “You can’t daydream now. We’ve got to get— Are you OK?” The words came in rapid, nervous succession.
“I’m fine.” The lie was obvious.
A finger pointed at him, its nail was chipped. “You—” Her husband moaned, cutting off Stella’s response. She dabbed at Dan’s forehead with her sleeve. “He needs help.”
“We can’t take him to a hospital; they’ll be looking for us there. He’d have been safer back in the Morgen Towers. You should have gone with Skovsky Senior and Stann.”
Stella grunted. “Stuck out in the South Sea miles from anywhere but nowhere? No thanks. And I’ve seen the medical supplies there: a couple of used plasters, three knitting needles and a bottle of surgical spirits that has probably been drunk once. We’re going to the Kickshaw—”
“The bar we met at.”
“You think I’d forgotten?” she asked.
No. He didn’t. He hadn’t either. That chance meeting had turned his life inside out and the knock-on effect was ripping the country apart. Nice to be important, he thought wryly.
“It’s—”
“I know what it is, Stella.”
“The Resistance’s safe house?”
He nodded. A rush of air from an approaching chopper battered its way through the alley. A crisp packet tumbled along the floor, bouncing off bins and bricks and knocking into Dan’s ankles. It staggered him. Ray grabbed him under the arm.
“They must have meds there,” Stella repeated. “In the Kickshaw. For Dan.”
“You don’t even know what’s wrong with him.”
“Since when has that stopped a doctor?” As Stella attempted a smile, Dan’s legs buckled. Ray pulled him upright. The pain in his back flared and he dropped Dan onto a steel dustbin. The lid clattered to the ground, spinning in ever decreasing circles.
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing,” Ray said through gritted teeth. “What’s it look like?”
“Hey!” a voice called. “What are you up to? This is a restricted area.”
“What do we do?” Stella’s eyes were wide in the gloom. “Run?”
“No. They’ll shoot.”
A radio crackled. Light flooded down the alley.
“I said, what are you doing here?” The voice was louder, accompanied by the heavy tread of boots on gravel. A silhouette outlined by a powerful searchlight at the mouth of the alley became a police officer. The silver buttons on his shirt gleamed, drops of frost and ice amongst the coal-black cloth. His gun was aimed at Ray’s chest. “I said—”
Ray pulled Stella close and made to kiss her. “Just trying to get some alone time with my girl.”
“Your girl?” Stella’s head whipped round.
“Yeah, you just got promoted.” Ray flashed her a grin that was as forced as it was pleading.
“I just got what?”
“Who’s that then?” The officer shuffled closer. From under the close-cropped blond hair, a bead of sweat dripped onto the bridge of his nose.
“This?” Ray nudged Dan with his foot. Stella’s husband moaned and rolled to his knees. A line of yellow spittle trailed from his mouth. “A buddy of mine who can’t hold his drink.”
“Two things to say,” said the officer, whose portly frame looked to be one size too big for his uniform. “First up, you got a permit for that sidearm?”
Ray’s hand drifted to the revolver he’d taken from the Bridged Quarter, less obvious than the rifle that Stann had taken but still big enough to cause problems.
“Second, you’re breaking curfew and are drunk in public.”
That was three things. Ray went for the last two. Hoping the truth in the little lies would hide the lie in the bigger truth: off-duty legionnaires couldn’t carry weapons.
“We’re out late. Illegal. I know. Just,” — Ray nodded to the 10th-Legion insignia on his sleeve — “we don’t get much downtime. You guys got the same problem as I understand it.”
“Yeah, don’t I know it.” The officer lowered his weapon. “We get even less now they privatised the police. That’s only part of it. Things are going from worse to worst. More hours, less money, more hoops, less time to jump through them all.” This man, it seemed, wanted to talk. “And do you know why we’re getting no-go areas in this city? It’s not because the force is scared to go in, we’ve got enough firepower to compete with some of the small nations on the mainland.”
“Maybe I should have joined you boys instead of the 10th. We got weaponry most kids would turn their noses up at.” Ray forced a grin. Stella was quivering under his grip as Dan gasped for air like a drowning man.
The searchlight illuminated the officer’s grin. Behind him the lines and grooves in the bricks cast countless tiny pools of shadow on the wall. “Yeah, well, the reason we’re getting no-go areas in the city is because we’ve been told not to intervene. A friend of mine reckons it’s so the crime rates in those areas will rocket. That way, when the shit really hits, we can go in proper: heavy and hard.” He glanced down. Dan was clawing at his throat. Purple light glinted out from under his eyelids. “What did your buddy drink?”
“The bar. I should get him home.”
“Cool. Just stay away from this area. All kinds of shit kicking off over the river. Got the fire trucks in to stop the blaze from spreading, but I got a feeling they’re gonna let Tye burn down to the ground. My friend reckons they’ll get some big-shot real-estate developer in to rebuild it and then sell it to folks like you and me.”
Ray’s laugh was hoarse and forced.
The officer’s radio crackled. Stella jumped. Her eyes were wide in a face ravaged by dust and tear tracks. “For the love of all the gods that never lived, grab your buddy and girl and get a shift on, son. Some hardnut called Henndrik’s on his way down and he’s proper narked.” As the light drowning the alley shadows vanished, the officer holstered his weapon. “Stay safe, my friend. If you get a notion to wander around with a drunk after curfew, try not to get caught. And hide that revolver of yours before you meet someone less sympathetic.” With a final smile, he started back towards the commotion by the river. “Promoted,” Ray heard him say with a chuckle as he walked off.
Stella was on her knees, dragging Dan upright. “Help me!”
Ray grabbed her husband under the arms. The officer’s radio hissed at him. His pace slowed as he held it to his ear.
“I said help me, Ray.”
The officer looked back at them, the amused expression on his face frozen rigid.
“When I give the word, get out of here. Stop at nothing and for no one till you get to the Kickshaw,” Ray whispered.
“But—”
“Just do it, Stella. For once, listen.”
“Say,” the officer called. “Which legion d’you say you were from?” He approached in measured steps, hand on his side-arm. “New orders. We’re to bring in anyone from the 10th. Where’s your swipe
card? I need to see some ID—”
“Run!” Ray hurled himself at the officer. He wrapped his hands around the man’s thighs and drove his weight through the man’s legs. The leather holster bit into Ray’s ear. The officer’s gun arm was trapped to his side. Too close for Ray to draw his own weapon. Too noisy. A cry for help was bitten off as the man’s feet left the ground and, after a weightless moment when the officer floated in the brightness of the searchlight, Ray slammed the man into the alley floor in an explosion of dust.
“Help!” The officer found his voice. His cry echoed round the alley. Answering shouts sounded from the river. Calls for more light and backup. He drew in a breath to shout again. Ray headbutted him on the nose. The bone split. Warm blood sprayed into his face. The officer slumped back onto the floor, limp.
“Freeze!” A new voice. “Hands away from the weapon. Stand up.”
Ray stared into the black hole of a police revolver. Slowly, deliberately, obviously, Ray slid the fallen man’s pistol back in its holster.
“Up! Slowly.” The officer, wearing a muscle-hugging shirt, nodded skywards. “Assaulting a police officer is a big problem. You’re heading for a whole world of hurt.”
“Damn right he is.” Stella stepped out from the shadows. She slammed the bin lid Dan had knocked to the floor on the new officer’s head. The man slid into the dust, boneless. As the shouts of the police grew louder, she said, “You promote me like that again, Ray Franklin, and I’ll demote you permanently. Run.”
4
Remembering Lena
Captain James Brennan sat on a battered leather sofa in the president’s office and adjusted the focus on the military-issue screen. It was the same khaki version he’d been using to track Ray Franklin in the Weeping Woods not so long ago. He’d watched Ray kill the scarred man from Donia in those woods. Karil, he’d been called, before the drugs, the gwenium, had tortured him into something sub-human. Brennan was watching Ray again. There was a symmetry to it that pleased him. On the screen, Ray and Dr Swann were scampering along an alley. They were half-dragging, half-carrying her husband. Police officers were following cautiously, methodically, step by step. Brennan approved.
A message flashed up. The Unsung major, Henndrik, was on scene. That made Brennan uneasy. He knew what the man did for fun. And for the VP to trust a man like that? Brennan laced his fingers together. Counted.
Five, four, three, two, one.
Four, three, two, one.
Three, two, one.
Two, one.
One.
Half.
Breathe.
Better.
He didn’t approve of Henndrik but he could deal with it as a professional. He wasn’t sure what he felt about the VP anymore, though. Do I approve of my commander-in-chief? He should. Randall was Brennan’s superior. But his sister had died because of Randall. That troubled Brennan.
Randall was under the Folly Tree, phone clamped to his ear. Half of his face was lit by moonlight. The other half was obscured by the shadow of Laudanum’s corpse. A breeze spun it. The body swung in a loop and kicked Randall in the leg. The VP shoved the body away, his other hand, the hand that had broken the bone in the president’s throat, was clamped white-knuckle tight around the phone. What did Randall do to my little sister with those hands? Where did he put them? Brennan boxed the questions up as soon as they formed and turned his attention back to the pursuit.
Interference hissed across the screen, blurring the images in his head. The crackling line pushed the picture ahead of it. As Ray Franklin ran, the image rolled until it was split horizontally. The fugitives’ legs now seemed to tap dance on their own heads.
Brennan should tell the VP that Ray had escaped, that the man Randall Soulier hated more than he loved himself was free again. He couldn’t. The VP had slept with Brennan’s sister. Lena had been murdered because of that. Sex and death. That type of symmetry made Brennan’s own fingers twitch to squeeze and snap bones.
Booted feet came to a standstill beside him. “Laudanum’s guard’s ready. The one we let live.” One of the new Unsung recruits, a man with a rattish nose, pointed at the president’s desk. His voice wavered. Most people would have missed it. Brennan had a gift for spotting these things. He placed the screen back in its pouch, made sure to fasten the clasps, and placed it back, the right way round, in its correct pocket in his bag.
Everything has its place; everyone has their place.
Brennan had learnt as an adult that there were different ways of interpreting what his dad had taught him and Lena. Some interpretations were better than others.
Brennan walked around the dead dogs lying on the floor, stepped over the corpse of his colleague, the man’s chipped tooth barely visible now, and sucked in a lungful of air. The president’s office smelt of sweat and fear and blood. The smell had once terrified Brennan. It was now familiar enough to be reassuring. The guard was manacled to Laudanum’s chair. He was caught at that age where his body had started filling out but still had a soft roundness to it. It was the age that said: I lied about how old I was to sign up. His trembling said: I wish I could take that lie back. He strained against his restraints, eyes red and damp. Brennan knew that look. The guard was seconds away from soiling himself. The legions had given Brennan symmetry and balance. The 13th Legion had given him an additional outlet: questioning. “Free the captive’s left hand. Get me a first aid kit.”
The legionnaire struggled with the panicking man. The guard wanted the manacles off, was desperate for freedom. But not like this. This kind of freedom came at a price. The rat-nosed Unsung legionnaire, a recruit from Donia, unlocked the handcuffs after a fierce struggle and scurried off.
Moonlight glinted on Brennan’s blade as he laid it on the wood. The guard’s face, already screwed into uncomfortable folds of flesh by the tight gag, went the colour of snow.
“Place one finger on the desk.”
The man shook his head. It was easier to think of him as a man than a teenager. It made the questioning easier to justify. “Place one finger on the desk.”
The captive sobbed like only a child could.
“If I have to say it again, you’ll lose a hand.”
Tears streaming down his face, the guard placed his finger on the wooden desk, between a thick red binder and the old phone. “No. Please. Stop. I promise. Why?” The gag muffled the guard’s words. It didn’t matter. Brennan could have predicted what he said. Everyone always said the same thing. Brennan knew. He had experience. Ever since his . . . ‘extraction’ (was probably the most neutral term for it) of information from a young Donian girl had got him the recommendation for this gig. That had been in the third Donian Drive for Democracy in 2099. The third time their rebellion against the Ailan government had had to be quashed. Democracy was flawed; too much choice was a weakness. Democracies bred dictatorships just as much as the other way around. Brennan had thought the shaky video that had materialised of that session was going to get him dismissed from the military, or worse. Instead, he’d been shifted to the 13th.
“You move, you lose a hand. You lie, you lose a hand. You stall, you lose a hand.”
Sweat pouring down his face, matting in the lone hairs that may one day become a beard, the guard placed his index finger on the table.
“I’d’ve picked the little finger myself. Less important.”
The man’s eyes rolled wildly. He switched fingers. Drops of sweat splashed onto the floor. The internal debate was plain on his face: which digit did he want to lose?
“The little one. Good choice.” Brennan placed the blade of the knife in the joint behind the nail. The distal interphalangeal joint. He’d looked it up. It wasn’t so much pride in his work as a need to rationalise what he was doing. Looking at a body as a sum of mechanical parts made it easier to do what he did. “Look at me,” he said. An inexplicable flash of hope lit up the guard’s face. Brennan slammed the heel of his hand onto the knife.
A gout of blood sprayed across the
desk. The fingertip rolled to the floor. The guard’s back arched. His face contorted. The muffled scream was agonising, even to Brennan.
“The ring finger.”
“No!”
“Your hand, then?”
Sobbing, the guard placed his finger back on the desk, blood pooled around it.
Brennan’s hand whipped down.
Thud.
“Middle.”
Thud.
“Bind the wounds,” he ordered the legionnaire.
As the rattish-nosed Unsung got to work, any vestiges of resistance drained from the young man’s body. He was beaten. The policy of shoot first, ask second was brutal but it worked. Once the interviewees had lost part of themselves, the prospect of losing more became more real than any number of promises or threats could make it.
Brennan could take or leave the questioning (officially they called it whispering). But, according to his psychological profile, his emotional detachment and attention to detail made him an ideal candidate. To Brennan, it was simple. There was no conflict of interest, no moral right or wrong. Do what you’re told, obey the law and life goes on. Break the law and you pay for it. Discipline, symmetry and order had to be upheld. That was why his unease with Randall Soulier itched from the inside out.
“I’m going to ask you some questions about Bethina Laudanum,” Brennan said to the guard. “The president is dead, but I want to know everything you know about her and her movements.”
The legionnaire pulled the kid’s gag back. The lines it had cut into the his mouth gave him a leering, cartoon-demon smile.
