Aijlan

by Andy Graham

  The thrill had soon faded. The banners that fluttered above the milling heads no longer bore his misspelt name, but carried other demands.

  The Silk Revolution had been a useful tool to get him what he wanted, but now he wanted the sheep to slink back to their homes so he could enjoy his disappearance undisturbed. This way was safer. No one would think to kill a dead man, especially not his ball-bearing obsessed friends in Somer that had helped trigger the revolution.

  He started the bench rocking again. His feet scuffing on the balcony floor, breaking chips off the pebble-dash surface. Reaching down, he scratched at a rash of corpulent spots on his inner thighs. He’d never been sure if grown men should be seen on a rocking bench. It was an odd feeling to allow himself such an indulgence without his every action being dissected and analysed, without an aide prompting him on this, that, or the other.

  “To hell with what anyone else thinks,” he said. He drained the glass, his face splitting into a grin. His time in the public eye was over. A life free of the opinions of friends, family, and the fools he led awaited him. His weight and sartorial inelegance were no longer their problem. And the longer he was away from people who thought things like this were an issue, the happier he was in his own skin. He stamped his feet into the balcony, pushing the bench harder. The movement was reassuring, and there was no one watching.

  “Screw you all,” he shouted up to the sky.

  He followed the distant red blinking of the sun-fans. There were more of them than stars tonight. He stared at them until he could see red lines tracing across the sky. A thought flashed across his mind.

  Could the sun-fans be hacked?

  He’d been told they couldn’t. The same people had also told him the machines were fine just days before they developed their latest glitch. A glitch that no one could isolate. He was tempted to send some of these scientists and technicians out to the new research camps. The genetic research they were doing there was uncomfortable enough for even the most ‘talented’ scientist to get the point.

  No matter.

  Should the sun-fans fail, it would consolidate his hold over Hamilton, and that silly secret society of his.

  The bench slowed to a standstill. The hot breeze teased the hairs on his bare legs. All he had to do now was find the location of this other copy of Franklin’s video. That thought still pricked at his dreams every night. Not even Taille had known where that was.

  The air carried the smell of smoke from the city. A chopper thudded past the old tower, its rotor wash swirling up dust and gravel. It hovered over the square, a distorted voice warning the protesters to disperse. A low hum announced the arrival of a drone.

  The president rattled the ice around in his glass. He’d find it, wherever Franklin had uploaded it. Then, he was going to up the stakes. He looked at the moons, the mining scars on one of them now visible.

  A sun-fan shifted in the heavens, and winked at him.

  Epilogue

  Beth pulled her black coat tight, ignoring the cold air swirling around her ankles. Her feet crunched on the frosted grass, her ears burning red. Winter had finally chased the last heat of the Ancestor’s summer away.

  The air was fresh, stinging her nostrils, chilling her from the inside. This was what she supposed people meant when they referred to taking the airs, the benefits of a bracing walk in the countryside. Amongst the cold, wet snow that soaked you from the feet up, and hid the animal shit. Miles from the warmth and convenience of the city, and even further from progress.

  The remains of some balloons hung limply off a bare tree branch. Multicoloured and flaccid, the dirty rubber twitched in the wind. One window of the cottage had been broken from the inside. Wind whistled through a hole in one of the panes, and a slim metal box lay amongst shards of glass in the snow.

  She rammed her balled fists deep into her coat pockets, watching the dark-haired woman squatting by the tree. Thryn was speaking in low, soothing tones, her hand held out palm up: the way you would to a wounded animal. Cajoling hadn’t worked; neither had bribes. It was a world away from the screamed count from one to three that had been a fixture of Beth’s own childhood; her scarlet-faced mother waving her crooked index finger around as if she were trying to shake it free.

  Beth fought back the urge to stamp over there and drag the howling child out from behind the tree, to slap some manners into it. That was not the solution, she knew that, and she didn’t want to do that to Rick’s child.

  She stared at the low grey sky blanketing the village. Not even the drones and sun-fans were visible. She craned her neck around, trying to get rid of the stiffness that had been creeping in since last seeing Rick two weeks ago.

  Surrounded by police cars and government vehicles, she’d watched Captain Lacky lock the doors of the converted laundry van. The smell of diesel had been rank in the air, and there was the distant plop that was a fixture of any large garage. She’d listened to the squeal of the fan belt as the van rattled up the ramp to the street. It had been her tribute to both the man she loved, and the life she would never have. Then she’d scurried up to her office and followed the van’s progress on the cameras. It had wound its way under the towering arch of the Gunpowder Tower, and sped past the protesters thronging the streets. None of whom had any idea what was being smuggled out of the city.

  Rose threw something at her mother. Thryn wiped dregs of snow and mud off her coat. Despite her recent confessions to Rick, seeing Rose and Thryn together unsettled Beth. Had he been right about her and kids? Who had she been scared for? Her unborn kids, or herself? Or was it that she couldn’t justify bringing children voluntarily into a world as messed up as the one they lived in? A world full of people that surprised her on a daily basis as to how twisted their morals were, and how low their responsibilities could sink. A world she was going to change.

  The wailing stopped, to be replaced by pleading sobs. Thryn straightened up, and walked over to Beth. Her long curly hair was bursting out of the loose ponytail that looped down over her thick woollen coat. She wasn’t wearing earrings; there weren’t even healed marks in her earlobes. She didn’t have a wedding ring on, but Beth caught a glimpse of the shiny skin under her coat cuffs.

  “She’ll come out, eventually,” Thryn said. “Give kids time and space to grow, and they’ll surprise you with what they’re capable of. It’s much healthier than the approach your cities are now applying: entrance exams and full-time education by two years old.”

  “Would you rather kids sent to a quarry at that age, or on street corners turning tricks?” Beth asked. “Sent into battle to soak up the bullets, or down into the mines?”

  An artery throbbed on Thryn’s temple. “Too soon, too close to the truth, and too loud,” she said, with a glance over her shoulder.

  One red-rimmed eye was watching them from behind the tree. Clean lines ran down the mucky face.

  Thryn cleared her throat, scrutinising Beth. “I appreciate you making the visit here to tell me what really happened to Rick, and why he’s not coming back.” Her words were slow and controlled. “Some would say that you’re here to gloat. I’m not that,” she paused, eyes flicking to one side as she rummaged for the word, “cynical. I would rather believe in everything than nothing. Either way you stand to lose, but my way you at least start out with something to lose.”

  Rose clambered up into the tree. The little girl sat amongst the low branches, staring at the women. Trails of steam snaked from her nostrils.

  Where Beth had grown up, there hadn’t been trees to climb, not even a ladder. She’d been fascinated with the idea. Even more so since her mother had told her that the only thing a girl — never woman, always girl — should climb were the stairs, and only then when the lift wasn’t working. Beth had spent the rest of her childhood carving out her own ladder to drag herself out of the family she’d been born into. She had promised herself that one day she would have her own tree, a giant one to remind her of what she had never had.

  “I�
��m here because you deserve better than just a message,” Beth said. “And Rick mentioned in passing that you’re averse to electronic communications.”

  A smile ghosted across Thryn’s face. “And you’ve told me everything?” she asked.

  “I’ve told you more than anyone else will. Believe that and you’ll have less to lose, no matter how much you started with. Both of you,” Beth said.

  “More to lose than my husband and her father?” asked Thryn quietly.

  “Yes.”

  Their eyes met in the early morning gloom. Thryn’s fists clenched, the muscles on her neck taut and corded.

  “If Rose wasn’t here—” Thryn began.

  “You’d have punched me?” Beth finished. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “No, but I know Rick.” Beth smiled, and stamped the snow off her shoes, wiggling her toes. “Xandria, his first serious girlfriend, was tall, blonde, willowy, precociously busty, and as stubborn as a rock. She also had the EQ of a tree. In some ways, she was a cut-out-and-print teenage boy’s fantasy. In other ways she was a glossy painted nightmare. You and I look very different from her, and also each other. I asked him what his type was once. He said—”

  “Strong,” Thryn cut in. “Here, here, and here.” She tapped her head, heart, and hand. “Said it was something to do with an old legend of this area.”

  Beth’s face creased into a smile. “I don’t know that story, but, yes, he looked for strength. Nurture that trait in Rose, she’s going to need it. We all are.”

  Thryn’s head dropped. She folded her arms, hugging herself, thrusting her hands into the opposite sleeves. Rose climbed higher; a branch cracked. The low thrum of an engine being started broke the silence. A lean strip of a man got out of the black car next to the open gates.

  Beth reached out, laying her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “If I can, I’ll get you more news.”

  “Thank you.”

  Beth nodded and turned towards the car. The bodyguard opened a door, heat and the soft chatter of a radio spilled onto the road.

  “Why did you come?” Thryn called out.

  Beth stopped and half-turned. “I told you.”

  “No, really, why did you come?”

  Beth shook her head, looking up at the grey sky. Feeling the damp between her toes that was creeping up her calves. “To see what Rick gave up. What he sacrificed.”

  What I turned down, she thought.

  Thryn laughed, a low throaty sound that had the bodyguard twitching his lapels open.

  “And now that you’ve seen his home and his family, you think you know that? Maybe I got you wrong. Maybe you do want to gloat.” The laugh soured. “Thank you for your visit and your time, but I think you have a lot yet to learn about the people you wish to rule, Ms Laudanum.”

  A whistle split the air. Rose dropped out of the tree. She thumped into the snow in a tangle of limbs and joints, and rolled to her feet. A pair of dogs came crashing out of the smelly pigsty towering over the cottage. There was something indecipherable daubed on the side in angular red letters and symbols. Hackles raised and growling, the dogs flanked the adults. Rose stamped up to Beth, fists clenched by her sides. A second bodyguard tumbled out of the car, fumbling for his radio.

  Beth waved them off. She turned back to the Franklins. One of the dogs barked at her. The noise pierced her skull, and set the hairs on her neck on edge. Odd that an animal that humans had effectively created from a wolf could instill such discomfort in people. Maybe there was something in that, if there was a way round the city-wide ban on animals. She moved away from the guards, towards the dogs. One of them laid its ears flat back on its head, tail bristling.

  “Thank you for the advice, Thryn,” Beth said, still watching the dog. “I have some for you and your daughter.” She turned her gaze on the girl and beckoned.

  Rose stood her ground, looping her fingers into one of the dog’s fur.

  Beth knelt on one knee, feeling the instant soak of cold through her trousers. She looked deep into Rose’s bloodshot eyes. “Never trust anyone in a suit,” she said.

  “Not even you?” the little girl replied, eyebrows meeting over her nose.

  “Especially not me. Goodbye, Rose Franklin. I hope we never meet again.”

  Bethina Laudanum dipped her head to Rose, a fraction of a bow. The child watched back, wavy brown hair framing a face that didn’t know whether to scream or sob.

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  A world where myth, legend, and religion have been sacrificed on the altar of science.

  Forty-three years after The Silk Revolution, Corporal Ray Franklin, from the elite 10th Legion, stumbles across a secret that upends his life. His personal quest to find the twin brother he never knew he had takes him on a journey from the Bucket Towns of his birth through the deadly political schemes of the eponymous capital city of Aijlan. The suspense culminates in a thrilling showdown where a series of revelations punch a hole through the society Ray thought he was protecting.

  Set against a background of genetic technology, a looming energy crisis, and modern day pain science, Franklin is an epic tale of haves and have-nots, where love, loss, loyalty, hate, and revenge stalk a dystopian society with roots in 21st century Europe.

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  Franklin - a brother in search of himself

  Franklin - The Prologue

  She’d learnt to write on paper; her grandfather had taught her. ”It’s a direct link to your soul,” he’d said. This was before they’d started rationing paper, something to do with the environment, she vaguely remembered. She’d never taken to typing or pawing at a screen – it all felt too impersonal. She’d never got the feeling that paper was watching her, either.

  The leather chair opposite tilted, hissing as it cushioned the movements of the interviewer. Rose slumped on her seat, trying to ignore the accusing gaze. A steady drip of water marked time in the background.

  On a set of shelves, a leaning tower of dusty first generation screens nestled next to boxes of fading, yellow papers. She’d heard rumours that paper was still used by the government, but had thought it a conspiracy theory, yet another fairytale waiting to be eviscerated.

  “I can’t make this choice, no one should have to,” she repeated, wiping a tear from her cheek. The hissing stopped and faded into the air. Rose could still smell the faint metallic scent that no amount of antiseptic scrubbing had been able to remove.

  They were sitting in a room in the sub-basement of a former hospital. It had been retasked in the last Revolution, the Silk Revolution, known in whispers as the Purges. The announcement heralding the opening of the rejuvenated building was still vivid in her mind: a holistic symbol, a new beginning of a robust, transparent new government, where the rights of the people would be muscularly enforced. She snorted quietly. Fluency in doublespeak seemed to be a prerequisite to holding any kind of public office, these days more than ever.

  The hospital floors above ground had been gutted and rebuilt, new flesh on an old skeleton. The subterranean levels, the floors mos
t people hoped they wouldn’t see, weren’t quite so sparkly and interactive. Viciously clean tiles, stained drains, and obsolete taps huddled alongside bundles of zip-tied cables, ID scanners, and wall-screens. It was a cluttered compromise between old and new. The figure in front of Rose cleared her throat, tapping a fingernail on the table.

  “I’m sorry,” Rose said, “I haven’t been sleeping well. It’s difficult at the moment. I can’t get comfortable . . . ”

  A solitary drop plinked into the drain behind her, and the water pipe fell quiet. She swallowed, trying to work moisture back into her throat. Her hands drifted to her belly.

  “A mistake was made. Your condition was misidentified,” the woman said, cutting through the silence.

  The nasally voice had peculiar overtones in the tiled room that made Rose’s skin prickle.

  The speaker leant forwards to tap something into the desk-screen. “For that, you’re owed an apology.” A cough was followed by a short pause. “Off the record. In normal circumstances, we may have been able to find a solution.”

  Rose forced back the glimmer of hope hiding deep inside.

  “However,” her interviewer paused, “you appear to have been trying to avoid us.”

  “That’s not true!” Rose looked up, past the blue eyes that were fixed on her. She focused on the heavy wooden door at the back of the room, its original metal handle now stiff with disuse.