by Andy Graham
“VIPER?” said Rick. “Never heard of it.” He typed it into his computer.
“Violent Incident Protocol Emergency Rules,” Marka replied. “It’s an old law that has only been used once before. It was introduced by the Nation First party last century, before they ripped themselves apart from the inside out.”
“Never heard of them either.”
His computer spat a random series of codes across the screen, and shut itself down. He swore at the machine and spun back to face the private.
Marka was playing with the end of her tie, smoothing the shirt down across her belly. As the sirens started crooning in his head, Rick kicked the chair into a circle again. The bag full of cables winked at him. A disembodied, electronic medusa that threatened to turn his fingers to stone. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling tiles: twelve rows of twelve. He started counting.
“Most people in Aijlan haven’t heard of VIPER,” Marka said. “The Nation First party changed their name to something more acceptable, something that would appeal to the rich, conservative people they were courting that shared their ideals of a republic. They were then swallowed up by a bigger fish. We in the Rukan Mountains have had the VIPER law quoted at us more times than we care to count, each time you came to claim more land.”
The chair slowed. Rick smiled at the young soldier in a way he hoped wasn’t patronising. Or lecherous. “Your people have a fearsome reputation.”
“We were just protecting our own.” Her words echoed those Beth had said to him not so long ago.
“‘A little dog is no less territorial than a big one, never underestimate them,’” Rick quoted. “That was what the soldiers sent to your mountains were told about dealing with the Rukan tribes.”
Marka’s chin rose. “Your soldiers called us dogs. It was supposed to be an insult. For us it was a compliment. The animals we share our homes with are our second best friends.”
“Who’s your first best friend, Private Marka?”
“Come to Rukan with me, and I’ll show you, sir.” The sentence trailed off. She fidgeted on the chair and avoided eye contact.
Rick kept the smile on his face, trying to take the sting out of the situation. She reminded him of Thryn, and not just because he was hungry for physical contact. There were elements of the pig-headed stubbornness of his daughter too. Would Rose grow up as docile as her wolf of a mother, or learn to contain it like Marka? Maybe Rose would rebel against her genes in her own quiet way by toeing the line? He’d tried to discuss this with Thryn, but she’d asked him to let life happen as it will. The image he had of Rose sitting on Thryn’s lap, both of them mimicking each other’s playful pout, melted. Into it stepped Beth. She was watching her cousin’s kids playing, a look of distaste smeared across her face. Rick swore quietly and rubbed the front of his shoulder. The bullet wound was throbbing. “Are you sure there’s no news of De Lette?” he demanded.
“Nothing concrete,” Marka said, moving her chair back. “Most say he’s dead. There are rumours that he’s holed up with the resistance that has sprung up, other whispers that he’s been thrown out of a plane over the ocean. Some say a distant relative in Somer is sheltering him.”
“And I’m sure someone else believes he flew to the moons to hide in one of the mines. He’s probably waving at us now.”
Marka smiled politely. “I really don’t know, sir, there’s an information embargo in force. All non-essential Internet activity has been shut down. Many self-employed people and small businesses have gone bust.”
He jumped up from the chair. This was too much. Marka scrambled to her feet.
“Sit down, Private,” Rick said, “I’m interested in news, not blind obedience.” Marka sat down, lips pressed together. Rick pulled the silk hanky he had been given from his pocket and mopped his brow.
“Sir,” Marka said, watching him. “I don’t want to speak out of turn, but I’d get rid of that hanky if I were you.”
Rick held it out in his hand. The hanky was sweat darkened and limp.
“The resistance have adopted it as their symbol,” Marka said. “The Silk Revolution, bloodless and smooth. Groups march down the streets waving silk hankies and scarves. They’re demanding the reinstatement of De Lette. Personally, I think the protesters are more interested in a repeal of the new laws being rushed out. There’s talk of prohibition, closing the mines, and a ban on all non-GM food. People have been mugged just for wearing a silk shirt by pro-government supporters.”
“I thought the revolution was bloodless?” He stuffed the hanky back in his pocket, rubbing the material between thumb and forefinger. It had become Rose’s in his mind; she already owned it, despite never seeing it.
“Relatively, sir. State history overlooks details that don’t fit with the accepted narrative. In that way, history is the same as science in my experience: the more the experts claim that the evidence is incontrovertible, the more questions you should ask.”
Rick turned his body so the camera on the wall was behind him. “Careful,” he mouthed, indicating the camera with his eyes, “keep it neutral.”
Marka stiffened.
“And make sure the water is cold, Private,” Rick added in a louder voice as he turned round, hoping his verbal version of Stann’s stumble-and-feint routine would deceive any watchers. “You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” As she turned to leave, she flashed him a hint of a smile. “I’ll be back soon to see if you need anything else, sir.”
Rick felt a rush of air from the closing door. He slumped back into his revolving chair, and rebooted the computer. The screen flashed at him a few times, throwing up access screens and a random jumble of images. He tried his password, but nothing happened. He slapped the side of the machine. The images disappeared and the machine spat puffs of smoke at him. He reached for his notepad, acutely aware of the flashing red light of the camera above him, and of the silk hanky in his pocket, pressing into his thigh.
XXI - No Ifs, Ands, or Buts
Another week passed, each day identical to the previous: up before the sun, and the daily timed run and log drills that everyone in the military had to do before anything else. The soldiers referred to it as breakfast, that it set you up for the day. This was followed by showers, and their first meal, invariably some kind of grey slush with differently textured lumps in it to give it flavour. This was known as the first training session of the day; if it didn’t kill you, it wouldn’t make you stronger.
Today, as with every other day, his breakfast sloshing around in his belly, Rick made the long trudge to what he tried to think of as his office. The windowless room doubled as a dumping ground for both old computers and questionable war heroes.
Spinning his water bottle in his hand, his shoes got heavier by the step. Beth may have said he was too useful to risk losing in the revolution, but he was not so important that he was allowed a room with a little natural light.
As he turned into the last corridor, a dead end with only one camera blinking down at him from high on the white walls, he wondered how long he could stretch out his research. A twisting feeling had been worming through him over the last few weeks, unrelated to the food. What if his work on the sun-fans and the power bridge were the only things keeping him safe? He pulled out his access card to start another day in his cubicle.
“Another day in solitary is another day closer to home,” he reminded himself as he swiped in. Not even Private Marka had been back to see him since her last visit. Closing the door, the sigh died in his mouth as the chair spun round in front of him.
“Hello, Rick. I thought you’d be here by now, but then you were always a little slow in the morning, weren’t you?”
He stood to attention, warring feelings springing up in his belly. “Hello, ma’am,” he said, with a glance up at the camera.
Beth followed his eyes. “It’s off, Rick. I had it deactivated yesterday. I convinced them that you weren’t a problem, that you worked best without being watched.”
&nbs
p; He heard the odd stress in the sentence, but let it pass. Standing at ease, he clutched the bottle behind his back.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down, this is your office?” she asked.
“You are sitting, and no more games please. Are you here for an update on my work?”
“No, to apologise. I was more than a little forward last time, in my sub-office. You didn’t deserve it, and I’m not sure why I did it. I guess I was more stressed about what was going on than I realised. Hamilton has kept me on as presidential permanent secretary, so I’m safe for the time being.” She held out a hand. “Friends?”
Rick studied her face. Her blue eyes were as defiant as always, but the dark rings under them were deeper than before. Her skin was tauter, hiding behind more make-up, her hair the same oily-black it had always been. Rick remembered finding, and pulling out, her first grey hair. They’d been lying on a library floor, of all places. Days later, it had been closed. The last library in the country sealed forever.
De Lette’s predecessor had considered it too barbaric to burn the books; he’d been keen to show how enlightened he was. It was a superficial improvement to the dark period in Aijlan’s past when the fires had been fuelled by words, when librarians and scholars had been found floating in giant vats of ink. This time, instead of sacrificing the books and the ideas they represented, the authorities had locked them up, and forgotten about them. That was six years ago now. He and Beth had both been nineteen; the year they had split, and he had met Thryn.
Beth dropped her hand to her lap. “You know me too well, better than most, but I’m not bluffing, Rick. This is a genuine apology. It was touch and go for a while. I was guaranteeing you safety when I had no assurances of my own. When I saw you I slipped back into the old pattern.” She clasped her hands together, rubbing the ring finger of her right hand. “It felt comfortable, the flirting, being able to strip off, and dance around a man with no worry about repercussions. It was liberating.”
“And what if I’d made a move?” Rick asked. His pulse was hammering under the wedding burn marks on his wrists.
She frowned at him. “You wouldn’t have. You never cheated on me, so you wouldn’t do that to your wife and child.”
“How do you know I didn’t cheat on you?”
“Because I tried to set you up on enough occasions with my friends to prove to them that not all men were driven by the little ball-brain.”
Rick laughed, the sound uncomfortable in the small room. “I should’ve known that it wasn’t my charm and good looks that was responsible for the sudden surge in interest when we were together.”
“That made it easier for me,” Beth said. “I knew that it was a sure thing, no ifs, ands, or buts, that you’d stay loyal.”
Rick shoved his notes to one side, and slammed the water bottle on the desk. “You told me once that loyalty gets you nowhere. You called it highbrow emotional blackmail used and abused to inculcate a sense of belonging or security into others. That someone seeking someone else to be loyal to is a sign of weakness. That the only kind of loyalty worth having is that from a dog.”
“And they’re banned in the city,” Beth said, dropping her head. “I wish your memory wasn’t so good sometimes.”
“I was loyal to you. If we use your pessimistic logic, what does that say about me?”
Beth looked up at him. “I was loyal to you, too. I don’t have an answer to that, and it annoys me.”
Rick crashed into his chair, and faced Beth. The laughter lines around her eyes were harsher than he remembered. “You want a loyal dog, go to the Rukan Mountains. Talk to Private Marka about it.”
Beth’s eyes cut to the floor. She rubbed the mole on the tip of her nose, pulling at it between thumb and forefinger.
“Why are you here, Beth?”
XXII - The First GTC
Beth headed over to the file boxes on the shelves. Successive division heads in Sci-Corps had had different ideas of how things should be ordered. Keen to make a mark, each one had imposed fresh systems on the old. It had resulted in an organisational backlog of the archives that was as inconsistent as it was unnecessary, a backlog that stretched into thick layers of dust on the shelves.
Beth’s face was calm; the deep lines were gone. Some people drank, exercised, surfed drivel on the Internet, or bullied others in order to unwind. Beth systemised. She called it organising; he called it controlling. He guessed she was trying to decide whether the files looked better in alphabetical order or by height.
He considered helping her. It would make a change from his time buried with the sun-fans, but he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to be that close to her anymore, despite what she had said about his loyalty. That bothered him: a burr under his saddle, that he couldn’t reach, but wouldn’t scratch if he could. He twisted back to the computer, psyching himself up to wrestle with it for another day.
Beth blew a swathe of dust off a grey binder full of old computer discs, and placed it next to a red file marked with the same year. “Do you know why the First Great Trade Conflict, the last official war we took part in, was fought?” She blinked the dust out of her eyes.
Rick glanced over. Date. She had gone for time in the end. The dust on the far end of the shelves had already been disturbed, he noted. Someone must have been in here while he was off duty, looking for something amongst all the digital junk.
“A handful of Aijlan politicians and business people wanted to protect their own commercial interests, and government departments from interference from foreign companies. They rebelled against the president and chancellor of the time,” he said, digging the grime out of a groove on the keyboard. “Every school kid in my generation remembers learning that headline in school: the day decorum died, and our noble parliament was reduced to a bar-room brawl.” Rick chuckled. “They were whipping each other with wet ties, soaked in red wine of all things, by the time the police brought it under control. I remember acting it out with Stann in the Old Town playground. The footage of that scene is what got me into cameras in the first place.”
Beth stuck her fingers in her ears and grimaced. “Stop. I know, you told me that once or twice.”
Rick ignored the jibe. “Beyond that, I don’t really know what it was about. Except we’d have a lot more families in Aijlan if the soldiers sent to the First GTC had fought with wine-soaked ties rather than bullets and bombs. My family was lucky. My dad survived and celebrated the old-fashioned way. Nine months later I popped out.”
Beth finished sorting a series of old pen drives and discs into a box she had labelled ‘dead or dying (possibly diseased)’, and slid it back onto a shelf.
“There’s not much more to tell,” she said, dusting her hands off. “No one wanted their life ruled by a faceless committee of multinational shareholders and lawyers, many of whom had never even set foot in our country. If we’d made a decision that didn’t fit into their business plans, they could have taken everything from us: medicine, milk, motorways.”
“You’re doing your alphabetised noun trick again, Beth.”
She held up her middle finger over her shoulder, and shunted a monitor along the shelf. Pausing in her reorganisation, she traced a smiling face in the dust-covered screen. It was a habit he remembered from the steam of a bathroom mirror, her way of starting the day with a smile.
“Somer and the mainland countries decided they were at risk from this trade deal too,” she said. “So they allied with Aijlan, briefly, to fight the larger overseas enemy. Since then, trade has been booming, and prices are lower than ever before.”
“We won. I know. Where are you going with this?”
Beth checked the date on a set of files, and moved them to another shelf. “Our former enemies are massively in debt. They were trying to avoid the repayments, but their lawyers finally ran out of excuses, even lame ones. So, the UN recently decreed they need to pay reparations. Their solution was the Universal Nations Financial Aid Information Report. And they should have t
hought that acronym through.” She shook her head.
There was a low whine from Rick’s server as it shut down again. He scrambled to pull the plug out, peppering the air with curses. A spider scurried out from underneath it, heading towards the box of dead pen drives and discs Beth had sorted through.
He gave the server a couple of kicks, and switched it on again. The computer spat his clearance back at him. The log-in screen flashed random letters at him, this time alternating with indistinct images outlined in fuzzy, pixelated rainbows. He was running out of patience with this machine. The only solution he could think of was kicking it harder.
“I thought you had a way with those things?” Beth asked. “Don’t you dream in binary?”
“My dreams aren’t quite as simple anymore.” Rick said, rattling the keyboard against the desk. “And this computer’s mother was a brick, a dead brick.”
Beth shrugged. She trailed a finger along the shelf, checking the files were flush. “De Lette realised that we were never going to get the loan money back, so he used an executive order to bypass parliament. He agreed to give our erstwhile opponents a debt-shave, and preferential trade agreements. They couldn't pay anyway, so he figured that trade agreements, primarily for gas and coal, were more valuable.”
“Isn’t gold better?” Rick asked. He squeezed the keyboard until his fingers went numb. Why wasn’t this machine doing what it should?
“Gold? Worthless.” Beth slammed file boxes against the wall. Puffs of dust were pumped out from between them. “You need coal or gas to melt gold to do anything useful with it. You can’t cook over gold, or run our old, ravenous power stations with gold. The modern, super-efficient power stations we allowed foreign governments to build in Aijlan were shut down remotely when those governments thought we were criticising them. So much for the new extra special relationship that it was touted as. The only people happy about that divorce are our security services; they called those stations information sink holes.”
