FSF, August 2008

by Spilogale, Inc

  Guards burst out of Education's lobby at the same moment, firing wildly. Automatic gunfire, old-fashioned ballistics, blasted from the windows directly overhead.

  The gray man lifted his eyes for a split second as the shots sounded above him. Max attacked, closing his hand over the barrel of the gun and turning it back into the man's chest, squeezing the trigger with his finger over the other man's. Volts shot through the body, dropped him twitching to the ground. Max's arm went numb to his elbow.

  For the next few seconds everything dissolved in the chaos of crossfire and men diving for cover. With the gun still in his hand, Max emptied the man's pockets into his—a little cash, nothing more. He rounded the corner, ran to the next one, turned. Shopkeepers and residents were coming out into the street at the sounds of fighting.

  So Mallove had been wrong. Intelligence did mean to have a battle in the streets. And Max had let himself get trapped on the wrong side of the front lines. He would have been safer in his original prison cell.

  He dodged down another alley, buttons flying as he ripped off his telltale charcoal-colored uniform shirt. His plain T-shirt would draw less attention from snipers looking for the other color. Jamming the gun into his pants, he shoved his way into a group of old women with shopping bags full of bread and produce. He slouched, keeping his head down as he crossed the street in their midst.

  "What—you didn't have time to get dressed when her husband came in?” one of the old ladies sneered.

  I'm not happy to see you, Max wanted to say. And that really is a gun in my pocket. He broke away from them at the far curb.

  An unmarked government car—but black, with tinted windows, same as being marked—blew down the street toward Education. Max flattened into a doorway to let it pass.

  A block away, on the edge of a rougher neighborhood, he slipped into a small shop and bought a phonecard, probably an illegal phonecard since the clerk accepted cash. Max stood in a corner by the window and watched the street. As he punched in the private number to Drozhin's gatekeeper, the one he'd memorized and never used, he noticed scratch marks on his hand. He must've gotten them from the guard, when they struggled for the gun—

  "What is it?” the voice on the other end said before the phone even rang.

  "I need to speak to Uncle Wiggly,” Max said. “Peter Rabbit's in troub—"

  "Sorry, you have a wrong number."

  He was disconnected.

  Just like he had been in Drozhin's prison.

  A thought hit Max with all the power of a sniper's shot: what if Drozhin had already died? The mean old son of a bitch had to go sometime and, like everything else he did, he would probably do it in secret.

  Max was screwed if that was the case. Who would take over Intelligence? Hubert was the nominal second in command, but he had no real power. Kostigan was the one to watch out for, but Drozhin probably had standing orders to have him assassinated on his own death. He wouldn't trust that one without a thumb on him. The only one who knew Max personally was Obermeyer. He'd been Max's case officer for years and reported directly to Drozhin. He was also certainly the one assigned to assassinate Kostigan, and it was unlikely he would live out the day after that.

  So if Drozhin was dead, and Mallove had just been assassinated, which seemed to be the case, Max was unlikely to live out the day either. Anyone who didn't kill him on purpose would do it by accident.

  The clerk stared at him, at the bloody back of his hand, the half-uniform. Pictures of the coup were being broadcast on the screen. If the media was involved already, then the whole thing had been staged. So, yeah, he was screwed.

  Max yanked a phonecard from the rack, shoved it at the clerk, tossed money at the counter. “Activate it."

  The clerk shook his head, pushed the money back.

  The gun came out of Max's pocket and the barrel came to rest on the clerk's temple: Max nodded at the wedding ring on the man's hand. “I'm going to use this to call my wife, tell her she's in trouble. You let me do that, and then I'm gone."

  Keeping one eye on Max, the clerk rang up the sale and activated the phone.

  It rang and rang until her voicemail clicked on. “This is the house of,” she used Max's other name, his original one. Her voice was a bit rough—she joked it was from yelling at their children, but it was too many years spent outside in the planet's harsh landscape, breathing grit. “He's unable to speak to you right now, but leave a message and we'll call back."

  He hesitated. “Honey, it's me. I'm in the capital, but may be traveling soon. Don't know when I'll be back—"

  Footsoldiers, dressed in the tan uniforms of Intelligence infantry, ran by the window. Max faded back behind the rack of apple chips.

  "—I, I,” he couldn't bring himself to say love, so he switched to their private code, “wish I was with you at the beach. Take care of yourself."

  He clicked off and looked up to see the clerk pointing the barrel of a shockprod at him.

  Max let the phonecard slip from his hand. It clattered on the floor. For the second time in less than a half hour, he put his hands up in visible surrender, backing quickly toward the door.

  He shoved the gun in his pocket and hit the street running blind. The street was oddly quiet now except for shouts from one alley. Max turned the opposite way, sprinted down a residential street and over a wall into somebody's garden, running through backyards and past astonished faces until he came to a corner lot occupied by one of the old Plain Churches, a long, low building that could have been a bunker if you bricked in the windows.

  The revolutionaries had not eliminated the churches when they took over the government. Pastors who supported the new regime prospered; some churches, like this one, the Falter Sanctuary, found other uses as dropboxes where Drozhin's spies passed information to Intelligence.

  Max entered, circling the pews to reach the Holy Spirit Stations in the side chapel. Whispering a prayer, he opened the thumb-worn, ancient Bible at random, more for the sake of ritual than insight.

  He closed his eyes, stabbed his finger at a page, and opened them again. Deuteronomy 14.2: You are a people holy to the LORD your God, and he has chosen you out of all peoples on Earth to be his special possession.

  And what exactly did that mean when they were no longer on Earth? Theology had never been Max's strong point, so he didn't worry about it. He snatched up a slip of prayer paper and a pencil stub, then walked to the kneeling wall. He chose the spot farthest from the two women, probably mother and daughter, heads covered in similar red scarves, who were earnestly and quietly scratching out their prayer requests. The television screen in the corner cycled through the old videos of Renee Golden, the Golden Prophet, founder of the Plain Christians.

  "God's plan for us can be seen in the tests he sends us,” the Golden Prophet said.

  Max recognized the sermon, the one she made on the banks of the river in Rostov-on-Don, in southern Russia. Golden was American, but she proselytized heavily during two long missions to the old Soviet republics, returning through Bulgaria, Serbia, and Greece. Hundreds of thousands followed her call to go into space. When she died before making the journey herself, it only made her more like Moses, destined never to reach the Holy Land. Her followers formed a polyglot community that never came together except by force—the force of her personality in the beginning, the force of hardship during the settlement of Jesusalem, and then, finally, under the Patriarchs and the revolution, the force of force.

  Max hadn't used this church dropbox in over a decade. He folded his hands and said an earnest prayer to the god of spies and all men caught behind enemy lines that there was still someone out there to receive it.

  Picking up his pencil, he began to write. He hoped that whoever saw the old code recognized it.

  "—Those of you who are listening to me now by way of satellite, I want you to join hands with us. Reach out and put your hand on the television screen—"

  He wrote slowly. The old code was all language for family. Aun
t meant one thing, uncle meant another, with trigger words that keyed off the meanings.

  "—God has given us the design for a ship the same way He gave Noah the blueprints for the ark. Only now we are invited to ascend directly into heaven. Bring your prayers with you, into heaven, and hand-deliver them to God—"

  Max folded the paper and dropped it in the slot.

  "May I help you?"

  A young pastor stood there in his ceremonial suit and tie. One of the angry young pastors, bent on reclaiming the church's glory in the face of the secular regime, if Max guessed correctly.

  "—God tells us not to mix with sinners, but this fallen world is full of sinners. Our only choice is to leave this world behind, to ascend—"

  "Just making a prayer request,” Max replied softly. He dropped the pencil stub into the little cup.

  "I don't recognize you as a regular communicant."

  "The church is a sanctuary for all,” Max said.

  The pastor glanced at Max's state of half undress, his sweat, his bloody hand. “It's funny how those who persecute the church run to it when it suits their needs."

  "—Are you ready for the test? You have a choice to make: you can die with the sinners or turn your face toward heaven and join the angels—"

  The old woman at the other end of the pew grunted as she rose to her feet with the help of her daughter. “Anyone can change,” she chided the pastor. “Sometimes crisis is God's way of showing us the need to repent."

  "Yes, Mrs. Yevenko,” the pastor said.

  Max slipped away when the pastor spoke to her. There was nothing else to do here except hope that Obermeyer, or whoever, got his message and understood it. He pushed open the side door; the sun over the metal rooftops glared blindingly, and he blinked.

  The hard muzzle of a gun pressed against his neck. “I'll be happy to kill you,” a voice said. “Just give me an excuse."

  Max raised his hands in the air, for the third time today, this time in true surrender. “No need for that."

  The muzzle shoved hard against his head, knocking him off-balance. “I'll decide what is and isn't needed.” He reached into Max's pocket and retrieved the gun. “Now walk toward Calvary Park."

  "Yes, sir,” Max said. These men were on his side, he had to remember that: they all served Intelligence, they all served Jesusalem. He'd tell them who he was right now, except for the possibility that Kostigan was in charge.

  He walked at a non-provocative pace, neither too slow nor too fast. Close to the square, he saw other men being rounded up. No, not just men: there was a woman carrying a baby, tugging a cap down over its head. A little boy clutched the hem of her skirt, running to keep up. This district housed the employees and families of those who worked for the Department of Education. So they were all being rounded up, even the civilians. A clean sweep.

  Two other men marched along under the gun of another soldier. One of them was in a T-shirt, like Max, with a cross on the same chain as his dogtags. The other was a major from Education.

  "Can you take this one for me?” shouted Max's keeper.

  The other soldier nodded yes, used his weapon to wave all three men up against a flat concrete wall. “Go stand over there—now!"

  Perfect wall for an execution, Max thought as he stood against it. Lots of room for burn marks and bloodstains to impress and cow the public for years to come. Jesusalem was full of walls like that, but most of them were old.

  While the soldier talked into his link, the other two prisoners whispered. The one with the cross said, “Hey, it's me. Hey."

  The voice startled Max. The stupid-but-earnest guard—what was his name? “Vasily?"

  "Yeah, what a mess. What's going on?"

  The major had different plans. “If we run three different directions, he can't get us all."

  Vasily brushed his thumb nervously against his cross. “Yeah, but what about the one he does get?"

  "Look,” Max whispered, covering his mouth with his hand like he was scratching his nose. “The guard's just pretending to talk. He's watching, waiting for us to run."

  Probably hoping for them to run. That way he could just shoot them and walk away. He might do it anyway, Max thought, even without provocation.

  "I'll go left first, draw his attention,” the major whispered. “You two take off the other way."

  It didn't matter to Max if the guy got himself killed, but he didn't want to get caught in the crossfire. When the major leaned, ready to spring away, Max slammed him into the wall. “Don't do it!"

  "Your mother's a pig!"

  "Move again and I'll shoot all of you!” the guard yelled, running over with his weapon up.

  Max looked him in the eye, held up his hands in what was turning into a habitual gesture. “Hey, I'm on your side—"

  "Shut up!"

  The guard hesitated. He wasn't used to killing yet, wasn't even used to hurting people. Maybe Drozhin recognized that problem with this generation of troops and was trying to blood them. That was possible too, if Drozhin was still alive. That was something Drozhin would do. Any explanation was possible at this point: it was making Max crazy. All he needed to do was hold on until he could make his contact and get away.

  The guard listened to something in his ear bud, gestured with the gun. “That way. The transports are lined up in Calvary Park."

  "Transports?” the major asked. “Where are we—"

  The butt of the rifle interrupted his sentence, scattering his words, along with his blood, over the road ahead of him as he sprawled.

  "Did I give you permission to talk?” The guard, pulse jumping in his neck, hopped out of arm's reach and jabbed his gun at them again. “Get up."

  Max tensed. The guard was working himself up to kill. It was clear three prisoners made him nervous. He felt outnumbered, unsure.

  The major tried to push himself up, but his elbow buckled and he fell again. The guard jabbed his gun, pointing it at all of them in turn, “I said, get up."

  Vasily shouted, “Get up!"

  Max hooked his hand under the major's elbow and yanked him to his feet, grunting with the effort. He was thinking he could throw the major into the guard and then run—

  Wheels squealed around the corner and a military recruit van commandeered for tonight's mission braked to a stop just feet away from Max. Two soldiers hopped out and the moment to run had passed. The major tore his arm away from Max, staggered to his feet. He'd never been blooded either, which is why he thought he could run.

  "What the fuck is going on?” one of the new soldiers said. They all looked like children to Max, although they were older than he'd been during the revolution.

  "I'm just following orders,” Max's guard answered.

  "Well the whole thing is fucked,” the newcomer said. “What the fuck do we do with these fuckers?"

  "Take them down to Calvary Park with the others."

  "God fucking damn it all. Jesus Golden."

  Guns jammed in their backs, the three men climbed into the back of the van. The new soldier grabbed the major. “I just fucking cleaned this, so don't bleed all over the seat."

  "I am still your superior officer—"

  His protest was cut short by the goose-pimpling electricity, the smell of ozone and singed flesh. The major clapped a hand to his burned shoulder but he didn't cry out.

  "Any other questions, traitor?” the new soldier asked. “No? Good.” He shoved the major in, slammed the door shut.

  Well, they were all being blooded.

  The only other occupant in the van wore civilian clothes. He was leaning forward, saying, “Was that a gun? What just happened?"

  Vasily swallowed hard, lifted the cross to his lips, kissed it, and the major stared straight ahead, his wide mouth tight, grim. Max didn't say anything either as the van rumbled away. They all leaned as the van sped around a corner. Max's stomach, still empty, lurched with it.

  "Why is this happening?” Vasily asked. “We're all on the same side. I don't und
erstand."

  "I heard they assassinated Mallove,” the major said, quietly. “Shot to the head."

  Max wondered if the comment was an observation or if it was bait. He glanced at the floor, glanced out the window. “No, they didn't. I was there when it happened."

  All their attention focused on him now, including the soldier on the other side of the cage up front.

  "Mallove and his assistant, Anatoly,” Max said, “and some other senior officer were on their way out. There were shots fired by the soldiers, but only after all three were shoved into a car and taken away."

  The major stared at Max; so did the guard up front.

  "What do you think it means?” the civilian asked.

  "It means Drozhin's probably dead,” the major said. “It means Kostigan has taken over Intelligence finally. And if they shoved all three guys in a car, it means they're dead as soon as the interrogations are done."

  The civilian laughed nervously. “Drozhin's not dead. He's got more lives than Lazarus. I don't think he's ever going to die."

  "All of you, just shut up,” the soldier said as the van pulled to a stop. He and the driver got out.

  "They'll be satisfied with killing all the generals and half the majors,” the major said, with a rueful glance at his own insignia. “Most of the rest of you can expect some interrogation, some time in a cell, then reassignment. It won't be too bad."

  When the civilian, probably a contractor of some sort caught in the Education buildings, spoke, his voice rose sharply. “They're taking us down to the cells? They told me it was an emergency evacuation."

  "Don't worry, they don't have enough cells for all of us,” Max said. The major stared at him hard, again, as if trying to figure out who he was.

  "See, that's what I don't understand,” Vasily asked. “Why are we doing this to each other? We've got a planet to finish terraforming. Hell, there's a whole galaxy to explore."

  That was the real question, wasn't it? After three generations of terraforming, the planet was still hardscrabble at best. Like people, it was deeply resistant to change.

  The civilian jabbed a finger at him. “How can you talk about terraforming—"