Viral Airwaves

by Claudie Arseneault

  Vermen gritted his teeth and averted his gaze. If he hadn’t seen the utter terror in Andeal’s gaze at the mere mention of a capture, he’d call him a liar. The Clarin family had been a major force of Ferrysian politics—and the Union’s, once the countries fused—for decades now. Galen had grown from a teenage science prodigy into a fine man devoting his intellect to the country. How could he also be that horrible person testing on unwilling human subjects?

  “That’s…”

  Andeal raised a hand to stop him. “He managed to leave no accessible paper trail, but we’ll get him.”

  “Get him?”

  The question left his lips before he could hold it back. It drew an eager smile from Andeal. His engineer friend leaned forward.

  “This is what the rebels are about, Hans. Years ago, Stern brought us information that indicated Galen was—”

  “Stop. Right now.”

  Captain Vermen’s anger flared as Andeal tried to push their ridiculous agenda. He could believe Andeal’s story; he’d witnessed its effects firsthand. That did not mean he wanted to hear the fantasized conspiracy of evil from a group hell-bent on putting a bullet through his skull.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the rest of your band of criminals. They tried to kill me last week. You’re a decent man and it’s a shame they’ve used your personal experience to cram your head with those crazy stories, but just because I didn’t let you die doesn’t mean I want to share in your collective delusion!”

  His tirade seemed to take Andeal aback, and for a moment, the engineer stared at him in slight confusion. Vermen held the blue gaze without flinching. Andeal’s lips thinned into a determined line. He grabbed the shackles and threw them at the captain. They crashed to the ground and slid to his feet.

  “No one crammed my head, Captain. Do you think Seraphin started this alone? I’m the one who asked him to build the rebels and help me bring Galen to justice.” He pointed at the shackles. “Put them on. I’ll show you the work.”

  As Andeal left the room, Vermen realised he’d never agreed to help. He considered staying inside, imagined the endless weeks of maddening boredom, sighed, then picked up the chains and clamped the shackles around his ankles.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Henry melded into the crowd of ordinary folks and walked to the pub’s wooden counter. He slid onto a high chair and signaled the barman over. The smoky pub’s atmosphere was both strange and familiar. It reminded him of Paul’s inn at the height of tourist season, when complete strangers competed at the dart boards or shared stories of their homes around a dark ale. Back when they held the Annual Race yearly. Back when Ferrea was alive.

  The men gathered in Galway’s pub knew each other, however. Fishermen assembled here after a long day’s work to compare haul and discuss business. Whenever someone entered, he was greeted by at least two comrades and could sit with them at the green-dyed tables. Henry expected to be asked to leave any moment now. He was an outsider intruding on their evening’s leisure.

  Once, he’d have felt close to these men and their hard, daily labour. Normal lives with normal worries. The fishermen didn’t concern themselves with evil conspiracies. They spoke of fish, weather, and trade, feared winter and loved their wives. Henry remembered how it felt to wonder when the next meal would be, but the question felt trivial now. Far from his world.

  No, that wasn’t right. It was him who’d stepped away from a normal life, not the other way around. Henry grabbed his pint and downed half of it in one shot. He wished he could forget what he’d learned and chat with these sailors, like he was one of them. A normal man, not a rebel.

  Perhaps coming to Galway wasn’t such a great idea. He’d needed to prove he could walk in his father’s footsteps, but he’d been a nervous wreck all day. During the drive north he’d harassed Joshua with questions—about their task, about the village, about anything he could think of—until his friend’s patience ran out and he told him to shut it. The two rebels riding in the seats behind heaved sighs of relief. Henry wrung his hands but remained silent the rest of the way to the reputed fishing village.

  Although little more than a few dozen houses cluttered around an asphaltroad, Galway was known throughout the Union for its smoked fish. Stern’s cousin held a prolific business on the shore of Lake Callenhal and, every few months, he gave the rebels a shipment of dried landlocked salmon, walleye, and rainbow trout. The merchant proved to be a gentleman—far more agreeable than Stern, who seemed intent on living up to his name.

  By the time they’d paid for and packed hundreds of dried fish, the sun had set the western horizon ablaze. As the light diminished the solar panels decorating the roofs began glowing green. In large cities it sufficed to light the streets, but villages like Galway complemented the nightly hue with normal white globes. As they lit up one by one, Henry recognised the lights used by the rebels in their underground network. How many had they stolen through the years to brighten their tunnels?

  “I suggest we don’t drive at night,” Joshua had said. “We’re remarkable enough during the day. I see no point in bringing extra attention to the vehicle.”

  Both of the rebels with them sneered. The lanky one with short blond hair—Bran, or something like that—shook his head. “I know where that’s going.”

  “Forget the pub, Joshua,” said the other, a flat-nosed woman from Mikken who’d never even introduced herself. “You saw all those stares we received.”

  “Indeed I did! It’s why I need to hit the pub. Where else could I apologise to everyone at once?”

  “Like you intend to apologise,” the woman answered. “I’m not getting involved in this.”

  Joshua’s eternal smile held strong as he turned to Bran, who shook his head right away and even took a step back. This time the corners of the Burgian’s mouth did fall a little. His gaze went to Henry.

  “You’re coming with me, right?”

  Henry stuttered and glanced at the two other rebels. They mouthed ‘no’, perhaps hoping Joshua would abandon the idea if he remained alone. Good ale was almost non-existent at the headquarters, however, and he missed his Wednesday nights with Paul and Kinsi.

  “Of course. Someone’s got to watch your back.”

  “Great. Go ahead and save a seat for me. I’ll help them pack everything in the car.”

  Scouting out the pub: a task he had been glad to accept. Yet as Henry finished his first pint, he wondered how many he’d have time to drink before Joshua deigned to show up. Every few minutes, his gaze trailed back to the door. Had something happened? The others had been worried enough not to come. What if his friend never made it to the door? Henry tapped on his empty mug with increasing speed as he grew more and more nervous.

  “Waiting for someone, stranger?”

  A broad-shouldered man plopped into the seat next to him, a large smile stamped on his face. Despite the locals’ warm dispositions, distrust slithered up Henry’s spine. Or perhaps because of it. None of the fishermen had even greeted him since he entered, and the villagers they met in the streets gave them more suspicious glares than smiles.

  “I am.”

  “Wouldn’t happen to be a red-haired Burgian thief, would it?”

  Henry stiffened and his fingers clenched around the mug. “He’s not a thief.”

  “So you are waiting for him.”

  The satisfied tone sent his heart tumbling to his toes. Once again, he’d talked too much. The underlying threat now clear in this fisherman’s tone did nothing to reassure him. Henry released his mug, ready to dash out and find Joshua. A powerful hand crashed onto his shoulder and forced him back in the chair.

  “Don’t panic. We’re all waiting for him.” He gestured at two of his friends, who took places on either side of the entrance. “You see, last time your troop visited town, your friend emptied our pockets. Cheated respectable men out of their money. All we want is to take back our due.”

  Henry gulped, hard. These men had played cards with Josh
ua and lost. No surprise there. His friend had made an art out of bluff and strategy. He also had a dangerous love of showmanship. It seemed Galway’s locals had a different kind of game in mind for tonight.

  The front door swooshed open as Joshua stepped in, all smiles. The grip tightened on Henry’s shoulder and immobilized him as two thugs moved in. Joshua’s eyes widened in surprise as they grabbed one arm each and dragged him out. He chuckled and did not resist.

  “Whoa there, gentlemen! I didn’t know you were that eager to see me again. Maybe if you unhand me, we can talk?”

  His voice trailed off as the door slammed shut behind them. A couple of locals snickered but no one stood up to protest. Who would defend a red-haired Burgian? The bright dye marked him as a criminal and served as a warning to all. Most exiles preferred to shave, since keeping the red hair was interpreted as pride in one’s crime. The two inches of brown at the root of Joshua’s hairproved he’d never cut his. Henry turned to his guardian.

  “W-what will you do to him?”

  “They won’t kill him. Sit and relax, and you’ll be safe.”

  In short, act like they aren’t beating him up, and it won’t happen to you. Henry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He couldn’t save Joshua alone. They were tall men, determined and muscled. He was all bones and skin, with a bit of a gut. Months of a strict instant noodles diet had vaporised what strength he’d had left and the labor around Andeal’s balloon had just begun to build it back. If he stayed behind, he’d be in better shape to pick his friend up after. Abandon Joshua to help him later. A coward’s decision.

  “All right…” He shrugged off the fisherman’s hand. The local brute set it down on the counter instead. Henry gestured at the bartender. “A glass of the strongest stuff you’ve got.”

  His heart hammered in his chest. In a nearby alley, two men kicked and punched at a fellow rebel, a friend. He flinched as he imagined the pain in his chest, the cracked ribs, or the blood running down his nose. And Joshua, who might take it all with an unshakable smile. Alcohol would be essential to survive the evening.

  He grabbed the shot with a shaky hand. Come on. Deep breaths. He could do this.

  Henry Schmitt downed the clear liquid in a single shot and slammed the glass down hard on his watcher’s left hand. The strong alcohol brought tears to his eyes and made his head spin, but he seized his empty mug. The fisherman’s pained exclamation turned into a howl when Henry smashed the tankard into his face.

  Henry stumbled away, dazed. Had he just done that? Euphoria rushed to his head and he grinned. The fisherman was twice his size, but right now he held his cheek and clutched the counter, dazed. Others rose in the pub and Henry understood he could not stand still and celebrate his victory. He dashed for the exit before the locals fell upon him.

  The fresh air calmed his fired-up brain and forced him to slow. He couldn’t just rush ahead. Step one: find Joshua. Step two: create a plan.

  The meaty sound of fists hitting a body, followed by grunts of pain, made the first step easy. They were in the alley right next to the pub. Henry snuck in their direction, one careful step at a time. The two thugs taunted Joshua, over and over. How could his friend remain silent at their bad jests? Henry’s anger rose at every insult. His jaws hurt from clenching it shut so hard. He made his way around the building and squatted behind a large trash bin. His hiding spot offered him a disgusting view of the scene.

  One of the men held Joshua from behind while the other punched. The green glow from the roofs gave a sickly hue to his friend’s skin. He hung limp in his assailant’s arms, too drained to defend himself. Perhaps that explained why he formed no rebuttals to their insults. Hard to retort with a few missing teeth and your mouth filled with blood.

  “My turn?” the one holding Joshua asked.

  “Sure.”

  They dumped him on the ground and he fell with a grunt of pain. He had time to roll over and wipe the blood from his mouth before the punching thug gave him one last kick. Henry bit his curled fist in empathetic pain. He ought to jump into the fray and fight. Quick, before the man he’d attacked in the tavern came to help.

  He remained rooted to his spot. Paralyzed. Terrified.

  One of the two thugs gasped and backpedalled across the alley like Joshua had burnt him. He set his back to the wall and pointed at the prone rebel.

  “Gun!”

  The other local had more courage than his companion; he bent over Joshua without the slightest hint of fear. He reached inside the coat and removed a small black firearm. Henry bit his lips to keep from cursing. The calmer thug spat on Joshua.

  “Illegal firearms. Congratulations, you upgraded from scoundrel to criminal,” he said. “Let’s get him to the station. A night in a damp cell would do him a lot of good.”

  His companion tentatively reached for Joshua’s arm and helped lift him. Henry crouched forward. He had to act. Except now, they held a gun. And all he had was his shaky fists. He should’ve ordered more than one shot. Or eaten a pot full of noodles.

  Before he could jump out of hiding, his earlier guard stumbled into the alley, wild-eyed. Blood trickled down his cheek and he moved with a strange, almost drunken stagger. He waved for his two friends to stop.

  “Did the other one come out? I can’t find him!”

  “No sign of him. This one has a gun.”

  A short silence followed. They all tensed. Afraid. Asking themselves who were these strange men they’d attacked. What had they gotten themselves into? Henry remembered a surreal evening, as he’d stood on Ferrea’s hill and stared at the black-clad stranger at his door. He’d panicked, mistaken Andeal for an assassin. The three fishermen bathed in green light, with an armed red-headed Burgian at their feet and another, vanished man, had every reason to do the same.

  Joshua’s body shook as he chuckled. He struggled to raise his head and Henry barely made out his smile in the feeble light. His mirth added to their terror. His friend coughed—a deep, throat-rattling sound that sent a shiver running up everyone’s spine.

  “Gone to warn the others. You think your local police can hold up against a dozen well-trained guerrilla snipers?”

  Henry almost bolted out to call the bluff. He wanted to reassure these men, tell them they were safe, that he wasn’t a dangerous criminal. He didn’t. They released Joshua, who collapsed in the dirt again. The one who’d spat earlier took a hesitant step forward.

  “Just…just don’t come back.”

  They exchanged another swift glance and hightailed out of the alley, Joshua’s gun in hand. Henry waited for their footsteps to disappear before he rushed out of his hideout. His friend struggled to his knees, but the effort triggered a loud coughing fit. He spat blood on the ground and wiped his mouth. Henry hurried to his side and held him up. Line of pains distorted his smug smirk.

  “And they wonder why they kept losing. Such an easy bluff.”

  Henry stifled a chuckle and heaved him up. “C’mon, let’s get you to the car. We’ve caused enough havoc for one night.”

  His friend groaned and took a sharp breath in. His voice fell into a whisper. “Henry…did they keep my gun?”

  “Yes.”

  Joshua let out a soft curse. “Seraphin will kill me.”

  * * *

  Seraphin slammed his palms on the council table. His chalky skin had turned to an angry red as he glared at them, heaved a sigh, and started pacing again. Long, furious strides. The same he’d had five minutes ago. Or fifteen, when Joshua had to explain the source of his wounds. Their short encounter with the Galway locals had put the rebel leader in a foul mood. Every time he seemed about to speak Henry gritted his teeth for impact, but Seraphin passed his frustration on the table and never formed a coherent sentence.

  Henry couldn’t help shifting from one foot to another, but Joshua waited for the diatribe with an enviable cool. He played with his deck of cards and watched Seraphin pace with little more than a passing concern. Even two days after the attack, he c
ouldn’t open his left eye completely and half his face was a big wounded mess. Judging from what Henry had seen as they drove back to Mount Kairn, his chest probably had its own constellations of bluish marks by now.

  His calm was a bluff, too. The first thing he’d worried about in Galway was Seraphin’s reaction. It mattered, for all the detached glances he threw around the room.

  The rebel leader spun on his heels and plunged his gaze into Joshua’s. He took a deep noisy breath, and with it Seraphin’s anger seemed to rescind. It burned bright behind his red-tinged eyes but he when spoke, his tone was level. Dangerous.

  “Do you realise how endangered everyone is now? You already have a warrant on your head. They arrested Stern’s cousin and are ‘questioning’ him. If they’re bright enough, they’ll trace the gun back to Clara, and interrogate her too. Any regular suppliers you met with could become a suspect. Who knows what they’ll say? How much they’ve deduced with time? By the Ancestors, you knew the Union’s men are on alert for us but you couldn’t help yourself! In a single night, you destroyed years of trust and precautions. And for what—a night of gambling? A couple of extra coins and a drink? What were you thinking?”

  Joshua kept his eyes on the ground through the rant. He took a deep breath, as if working up the courage to meet Seraphin’s gaze as he stepped forward to answer.

  “I’m sorry Seraph. I—”

  “Sorry won’t fix your mess.”

  “I was trying to fix it!” Joshua raised his chin. “When we arrived in town nobody would greet us. They glared or looked elsewhere, and I knew it was because of those games. So I insisted on going to the tavern. I wanted to give them back some coin and apologise before they barred us from the village entirely.”

  “And lo and behold, they did so anyway. Worse, they flagged us. Great work.” Seraphin rubbed his eyes under the glasses. His shoulders slumped and he sank into his chair. “Your recklessness will be the death of us.”