Aijlan

by Andy Graham

  “OK, friend, without any crap or poetic licence, tell me. What’s going on?”

  The man stepped round Rick, and draped his gift across the wing mirror. “Change.”

  XIII - Behind the Gates

  Rick grabbed the gift off the wing mirror and sprinted for the gates. Screw the car, the old military vehicle wasn’t worth the rust that held it together. The man with the scruffy face yelled after him. The wind blew his rainbow trousers tight around his skeletal legs. Rick’s loose-fitting, off-duty military shirt stuck in patches to his chest and belly. He flashed his pass at the soldiers. They waved him through and continued to set up check points to process the traffic jam. The streets on the other side of the half-built walls were struggling to contain the teeming mass of people hurrying every which way.

  Streams of civilians crammed into the underground rail network entrances. Some were trying to squeeze through the steel barriers; others lifted kids over the spike-topped railings. They were deaf to the screams of the staff that they were wasting their time: the network had been shut down. Car and lorry drivers abandoned their vehicles. They joined the people weaving through the labyrinth of vehicles on the roads. Groups of youths in long scarves and hoodies skirted squads of twitchy, armed police, a slow dance of nervous smiles and hidden text messages.

  Plumes of smoke from north of the river scarred the evening sky. Immobile, slack-jawed watchers dotted the shifting crowds, their phones fixed on the black clouds.

  A rattle of metal brought a surge of movement and screams. A wail of sirens punched through the air. Phones clattered to the floor. Lenses hunted for the commotion. Armed police wrestled a portly man to the ground. Rick pushed through to the red-faced sergeant in command. He pointed out the metal shutters that needed oiling. The police let the shopkeeper go, swearing at the muttering crowds to back off. Gibbering, the sweating man retreated to bar his door from the inside.

  Rick had been in Stann’s corner the night he had won his first regimental boxing championship. The air in the converted aircraft hanger had reeked of excitement and opportunity, an undercurrent of fear nipping at the heels of the unwary. That had been a few hundred soldiers, people who dealt with violence on a daily basis, men and women who were exposed to a rigid timetable of progressively more intense videos on killology. This evening, under the claustrophobic heat of the setting sun, the taste of anticipation in the air was sharper, amplified by the hordes of people sprawled across the streets.

  An explosion from Karth sent a spike of terror running along the pavements. The placard-toting procession Rick had stumbled into cheered. Their chants got louder. The demonstrators were waving things in the air, flashes of colour that caught the light. Silk scarves were wrapped around wrists, necks, and ankles. Others were nailed to sticks, and tied into streamers that flew like scrawny multicoloured dragons in the air. There were silk hankies everywhere. The same hankies as the one the bearded man had given him in the traffic jam.

  Rick felt for the hanky in his pocket, and collided into the back of a protester. She staggered, dropping her banner and phone. Someone swore at him. Rick pivoted to avoid a bunch of people armed with tambourines and songs. He ducked down past the entrance to an alleyway. Gloved hands grabbed at his waist and face, and dragged him into the shadows.

  XIV - The Unsung

  Rick grunted, air rushing from his lungs. He slid down the wall and rolled to his feet. His head was spinning. He could feel blood trickling down the back of his throat. The knuckles on his right hand were bruised and sore. The alley stank of smoke, urine, and rubbish being slow-baked by the heat.

  He stepped round the body on the floor. The man’s jeans were stained with mud and dirt. Rick was trying to stop the other two men from backing him into the corner behind the bins.

  “I don’t know who you are, or what you want,” he said, “but back off now, and we can forget about this.” He groped for his belt, where his baton should be hanging. He’d dropped it somewhere.

  Dark eyes glittered behind the balaclava of the larger of the two remaining men. His hand danced over his holstered stun gun, fingers twitching. “Lucky punch,” he said. He nudged his fallen comrade with a boot. “This rook was new, wanted to prove himself—”

  “Needed to prove himself,” the other cut in. He gripped his baton in both hands, flanking Rick.

  The first man swore at his colleague and held up a warning finger. “Maybe it wasn’t lucky, maybe it was a good punch. Think you could do it again?” The leader moved forwards.

  Rick circled away, his feet grinding on the gravel. He backed down the alley he’d been dragged into, and sneaked a glance over his shoulder. He’d ruled out running; an enemy behind you was worth twice one in front of you. Besides, there were some things he’d been brought up not to do, no matter how foolhardy and stupid they may be. His mother’s harsh upbringing was still lurking just below the surface, restrained by his father’s calming influence.

  He stumbled and dropped to one knee. The man with the baton jumped at him. Rick grabbed a handful of gravel. He flung it at his attacker. Launching himself forwards, Rick slammed his shoulder into the man’s armpit. He knocked the thug off balance, snaked behind him, and wrapped his arms round the man’s neck. One of the thug’s arms was trapped above his head. The baton clattered to the floor. Its echoes rattled around the alley.

  “Idiot.” The leader side-stepped to cut off Rick’s escape.

  “Stumble and feint,” Rick said through gritted teeth. “The Stann Taille one-two. A friend of mine taught me that move. You can have it for free.” The man he was choking fumbled under his leather jacket for his knife. Rick squeezed, sweat burning his eyes. “Think you can draw that blade before you lose consciousness?”

  The man clawed at Rick’s hands, shifting from side to side, trying to unbalance him.

  “Think I’ll let go when you lose consciousness?” Rick asked.

  His captor went limp, sagging in his arms. Rick held for another five seconds before easing up the pressure. He’d just tricked them with one of the oldest moves in the book. He didn’t want to be caught with an even older one. Rick pulled the man’s stun gun from his belt, and let him go. The balaclava-clad thug slumped to the floor, his chest rising and falling slowly.

  The leader unholstered his stun gun, gripping it in his gloved hand. His loose fitting shirt flapped in a slight breeze. “We were supposed to give the protesters a nudge here and there. Keep things feisty, but not leave any evidence,” he said. “But then we happened to stumble across a war hero. I think we can make an exception for you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “The Unsung, we’re new in town. But I have a feeling that you and your family are going to be seeing a lot of us in the future.”

  They manoeuvred for space between the tight walls.

  “Did the Somerian People’s Council send you?" Rick flicked the safety off the stun gun.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” The lines around the eyes behind the balaclava creased. He nodded to the bodies on the floor. “Let’s just say that these two rooks have just learnt the hard way that it takes more than a title to make a man. Doesn’t it, Major?”

  “I didn’t ask for that promotion.”

  “Do you think I care?”

  One of the men on the floor groaned, his heels scraping on the floor. Sirens filtered through the alley way. A distant explosion was followed by screams.

  Thoughts of his wife and child and the protests in the street were muffled and distant. Rick’s world had reduced down to the few metres: the flies buzzing around the bins, the graffiti daubed on the walls, the man in front of him. He felt the soft creak of his leather boots as he shifted on his heels, the way his damp shirt stuck to his skin. Rick forced his breathing to remain steady and smooth.

  “C’mon, Major,” the leader whispered. “These things have only one shot. Let’s see how quick a hero is.”

  A flash of light exploded at the entrance to the alley, a screech of tyre
s. The eyelids on one of the bodies flickered open. Rick and the Unsung raised their weapons. Two shots rang out in the fetid air.

  XV - A Prayer's Breath

  A shot slammed home. One man collapsed to the alley floor. His limbs were locked out straight, fingers splayed wide. The blue sparks spiralling around his body crackled.

  Rick lay on his side, chest heaving. He’d been quicker by a prayer’s breath.

  He rolled to his knees, and spat out the dust. The pain in his shoulder brought tears to his eyes. The stun gun dropped from his limp hand. His shoulder had had enough pain for one lifetime.

  He staggered over to the man he had just shot and poked his leg with his boot. The thug didn’t respond. Rick tugged the balaclava off. The shaven-headed man was staring at the sky with blank eyes, his face locked into a rictus grin. A steaming puddle was spreading underneath his trousers. It trickled away in shiny rivulets that tracked through the dusty floor.

  Rick’s shot, though lower than he had been trained to shoot, had at least hit the target. He grimaced and shook his hand, trying to work the sensation back into his fingers. If this was what a partial hit did, then the other man was going to be in pain every time he pissed for months.

  He stooped down, his head throbbing, and went through the men’s pockets: nothing. No ID, no radios, phones, not even a tracking device. One of the men groaned. His hand clawed at the floor.

  Time to disappear.

  Rick stumbled out of the alley, tripping over his legs as he ran. His phone buzzed. He fumbled for it. His arm was heavy and unresponsive. Another official message: come to service entrance at the back of the presidential offices, alone.

  Rick squeezed his way through the mobs of people choking the streets. Shadows were reclaiming the city from the sunset. The red and blue emergency lights of the police and military vehicles carved them up into a procession of flickering shapes. The taste of smoke from the burning city across the river was heavier here, mixing with the perfume of rebellion that clung to the crowds.

  He pushed against the flow of the protests, staying close to the edges. He didn’t want to be swamped in the centre, but was avoiding the mouths of the alleys. They gaped like open, toothless jaws. Protesters smiled at him, inviting him to join the game. Others glared at him, hands hidden deep in their pockets. The glint of steel flashed out from under coats and waistbands. Tambourines and drums clashed. Rick bullied his way forwards, forcing a path upstream. His chest was heaving. He fought back the urge to lash out. He shoved someone out of the way, leaving a trail of insults and frowns in his wake. He ducked his shoulder, ricocheted off someone, and burst past the last line of protesters.

  He was in a small concrete clearing in a forest of buildings. The pocket of space stretched along the litter-strewn floors. It wove between the steel and glass-clad buildings that towered over their black stone brethren, caressing the gold leaf peeling off chipped ornaments. The space spiralled up to the crimson sky, scarred by the plumes of smoke from Karth.

  He could move.

  He could breath.

  Rick bent double, resting his hands on his knees. The bruised muscles along the sides of his ribs strained to drag in more air. A raw, numb feeling squirmed through his elbow. Climbing his hands up his legs to push himself upright, he turned to watch the back of the protesters.

  They were dancing away, each out of time with each other, and some out of time with themselves. Their banners crackled in the breeze. The rainbows and letters daubed on the cloth jostled for prominence. The tinkling of tiny cymbals and the stamp of feet turned the corner.

  He was alone.

  Rick looked at the sun to orient himself, and sped over to an alleyway.

  He ducked his head around the wall. Water leaked from a cracked drain pipe, dripping silently into a dusty puddle on the floor. Shadows taunted him, danced with his imagination and his memory. His shoulder stung, his fingers sweating.

  “C’mon. The alley’s empty,” he whispered.

  Holding his breath, he sprinted between buildings that touched at the top. He sped past window panes full of dust and cobwebs, out into the shadow of Melesau Tower: the president’s tower, named after the larger of the two moons.

  After a breathless few minutes spent hunting the back entrance he had been directed to, Rick was met by a young woman from Sci-Corps. She introduced herself as Private Marka.

  The dark-eyed soldier was tongue-tied with excitement over meeting the hero of Castle Anwen and the brains behind the sun-fans. She led him along identical bland corridors. People rushed past, refusing to make eye contact. Marka’s heels clicked on the floor, as impeccably timed as her uniform was pressed.

  Marka bustled him through one door of many. She spent a couple of minutes asking him if he needed anything, fussed over his bruises, and left as quickly as she had arrived, her parting words hanging in the air.

  “What does that mean?” Rick asked as the door closed. “No matter what happens, it’s been an honour?”

  “Nothing, sir. I’m sure you’re going to be OK.”

  The door clicked shut. A key rattled in the lock.

  XVI - Paper Galleries

  Rick stomped around the small room. The nervous energy since the alley scuffle had dissipated into a bruised stiffness. He had been left in a utilitarian office: sink, sofa, desk, wardrobe. It smacked of a need to get things done, rather than impress people with what was going to get done.

  He helped himself to water from the sink. The china cup rattled on the porcelain as he put it down. He’d checked. There were no cameras. Why did he get the feeling the desk was watching him? He pulled the silk hanky the beard had given him from his pocket, and wiped the sweat off his brow. He still had no idea why so many people had been waving these things around.

  He was shaking. The muscles in his legs were heavy and acidic. Maybe he should sit. He lowered himself onto the sofa. It smelt new; the leather had that slippery stiffness to it that needed years of sitting to soften up. His restless legs and adrenaline-addled body fidgeting, Rick persevered with the sofa. Then he found a pair of black knickers stuffed between two of the cushions. The plain wooden chair in the centre of the room seemed a better bet at that point: less voyeuristic, fewer surprises.

  The walls were plain except for one picture. It looked like it had been drawn by a child. What the oversized letters underneath it spelt out made no sense, no matter how long he thought about it. Facing that was a simple, uncluttered desk with a computer and an old-fashioned rotary dial phone: a living antique. Next to the computer lay one of the prototype first-generation ‘screens’, the mobile computers that were being fazed into the government and military.

  He paced from one end of the room to the other, counting the steps as his heels hit the tiles.

  A small wardrobe stood in a corner, the door ajar. A line of freshly pressed blouses and suits hung from the top rail, simple but well cut. Underneath them was a duffle bag, a white cuff poking out of the end. He’d been sure there had been a red stain on it, but had closed the door once he had realised what he was doing.

  He checked his phone. Nothing. No signal. The corridors outside were silent. Questions and theories chased each other through his brain, fuelled by the twitchy post-fight aggression that needed an outlet.

  He still had no idea who had sent him the message summoning him back to Aijlan-Karth, nor who had sent him the second that had directed him here, but instructions via official channels couldn’t be ignored. The messages, the protests in the street, the attack in the alley had squeezed the innocence out of the recent rumours that had been creeping through the barracks and the hospital during his rehab: the military’s resentment of their emasculation by the government, beheadings within big business, and backroom dealings that were very much on the shop floor. The endurance run Chel had forced on them in Castle Anwen, and all the extra training the soldiers had endured, took on a darker light. It reminded him of his father’s grave in the military cemetery: full of flowers and mou
rners by day, but with a very different atmosphere once the moonlit fog was twisting its way round the headstones.

  The picture hanging on the wall was illuminated by the last rays of the day’s sun. They streamed though the one small window, two dust motes spinning in the light. The picture was a single sheet of yellowing paper, taped together in one corner. Its creases pressed against the glass. Was this where they were heading? Paper resigned to museums and galleries?

  He read the colourful writing again, this time aloud. “The pea is mightier than the sword.”

  It still made no sense. Maybe it was a spelling mistake; that would work.

  A key turned in the door. He stepped to one side, and stood to attention. Oily-black hair gleaming, a slim figure swept into the room. She checked the corridor outside and shut the door.

  “Now, Rick, what are we going to do with you?”

  XVII - Perspective (Eight Billion)

  Beth sat on the leather sofa, the soft material of her suit rustling. She looked up at him with those clear blue eyes that had once set his pulse chasing its own tail. “Sit down, Rick, you’re safe here.”

  He thrust the silk hanky out. His hand was quivering. “What’s going on? I got attacked on the way here. Why is everyone waving these things around? What’s going on over the river? Karth is being ruined!”

  She rubbed the mole on the end of her nose and sighed. “More questions. You always had too many questions.”

  She patted the sofa. Her fingers left a gentle dimple in the sweeping curves of the cushion. “Sit down and I’ll tell you. You could sit on my lap, if you like? That’s how president De Lette wanted me to sit while he answered my questions,” she said with a too-sweet smile. “I did suggest he sit on my lap instead, but he didn’t think it was funny. He claimed it didn’t work that way.” Her smile twisted into a sneer. “So I asked him if a man’s penchant for having a smaller woman sitting on his lap was a natural expression of paternalism, possession, protectionism, or latent paedophilia.”