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Chapter [1]
Glass-fronted office buildings border the
Grand Plaza of Malik on three sides. A busy thoroughfare runs along
the fourth. Set opposite the road, and dominating the scene, is the
weathered bronze statue of Nial Malik, the Revolutionary Hero. Atop his
plinth, he poses like
a mountain climber at the very peak of a high mountain, gripping a flag standard,
which rises triumphantly above his head.
Apart from a high perimeter railing, the Grand
Plaza is one of the few truly open spaces remaining in the centre of Numa City, the capital of the Congress of Numanian states. Tastefully planted with small trees and bushes,
and with a scattering of pools and fountains, it's a lovely place to
visit on a sunny afternoon.
As usual, it was busy. I made for my favourite bench, which is tucked
in a corner well away from the road. As the sun sinks and the buildings cast
their shadows, it’s always the last bright spot. Just before I sat I
paused to watch a group of tourists standing in front of Malik’s statue,
their faces aglow with wonder as they read the plaque at the foot of the
black marble plinth.
I know every word on that plaque—which I should,
since I wrote it.
A faint tingle of static
electricity tickled the back of my neck and I automatically turned my face
casually away as a small spherical surveillance drone drifted by. It floated about four
metres off the ground, its mirrored metallic skin reflecting both the
ever-blue of the clear skies above the city, and a strangely distorted
panoramic view of the plaza. Optical data streamed from its scanning lens to
the central computers, and given enough time it would identify everyone in
the Plaza. Everyone that is except me. If the drone had a clear image, my
scan would return Terrence Mutz—retired waste disposal technician.
I often wonder
if Mutz ever existed, or if the Council of Freedom made the name up to save
time. To be blunt, Terrence Mutz bears a striking resemblance to Nial Malik.
Maybe not so much to the statue, the Council used a bit of licence
there—they made me taller, more rugged and handsome, with a powerful, heroic
build. I think it was a committee effort. I suppose I should have been
grateful that they let me write the inscription on the plaque.
The drone
drifted past the group in front of the statue and stopped, hovering above a
man sitting by a fountain. Every time he opened a metal lunchbox by his side
the drone shifted position to try and scan inside it. I almost laughed when
I saw a pair of grey-clad Enforcers striding across the Plaza towards him.
This was law-enforcement at its most ludicrous.
Shouting and
gesturing at the lunchbox, the Enforcers got the man to his feet. Passers-by
avoided any sign of interest, averting their gaze in true obedient-citizen
fashion.
Given better
circumstances I would have liked to meet the man with the lunchbox. He was
definitely someone who still knew what personal freedom was about. I admired
his nerve as he took his time laying out a neat row of sandwiches and fruit
for the Enforcers to inspect.
When
he whipped out a small hand-stunner and fired, I’m sure my jaw dropped. In
an instant both Enforcers were out-cold on the ground, and in an Enforcer
control room someone had just hit the panic button to scramble a rapid
response team.
The man turned
on the drone. It had no protocol for this situation; it just floated there as
he fried its circuits. First it wobbled, smoke jetting from its stabilising
thrusters,
then it burst into flames, and finally, with a loud bang, it crashed to the
ground. Good sense stopped me raising both arms and cheering.
For most of
the people near me, the drone exploding was their first warning that
something was wrong. I’d seen it all unfold and knew from the second the
man drew the stunner, that I should have been somewhere else. Only my
perverse pleasure at watching the drama unfold had kept me there, but now it
was definitely time to leave.
Screams filled the air and an acrid burnt-plastic smell drifted with the
smoke from the burning drone. I sidestepped around my bench and backed
slowly and carefully towards the nearest gate, about ten metres away. I was
halfway there when the first helicopter drop ship arrived; skimming the
rooftops and sweeping in over the plaza, its siren wailing and its twin
rotors hammering the air.
Drop ships are
big ugly boxes with rotors mounted over the front and rear. This one settled
into the Plaza, its downdraught throwing dust, shrubs and people aside with
equal disregard. Once down, Enforcers tumbled out in number. Most citizens
cowered or fell back in panic; strangely, a few were drawn forward.
Amidst this
confusion and bustle I continued my hopefully inconspicuous progress until I
was through the gate and out of the Plaza.
Two more drop
ships arrived and a fleet of ground cars. The Enforcers used the railings
around the Plaza as their perimeter, erecting barriers across all the exits
and trapping everyone still inside.
A flurry of
drones filled the air, spreading through the adjoining streets to watch for
unusual activity.
I let myself
get pushed up to the railing with the inevitable rubber-neckers. Everyone in the Plaza was methodically gathered up and bundled into a
fleet of carriers. Anyone caught would be held while their papers were
checked and their movements corroborated against surveillance records. Was
the
man with the lunchbox still among them, or had he managed to escape? I hoped
so.
Who was he?
Someone stretched to the limit probably—finally snapped and decided to go
out in a blaze of glory. None of this would make the news, since it involved
a direct attack on the Enforcers. If they had him, he’d get a swift trial and execution. At
least that was better than the old regime, which inevitably involved some
form of torture.
With the Plaza
almost empty, Enforcers dressed in riot gear pushed out into our crowd.
Shouting and menacing us with stun sticks, they ordered an immediate
dispersal. It was exactly what I had been waiting for—so I dutifully
obliged.
Merging with
the general flow, I walked to the nearest overhead transit station. There
was a queue at street level due to a couple of Enforcers running body
searches with a scanning loop at the foot of the steps. I took out my I.D.
and waited my turn.
The Automated
Overhead Transit System is my favourite form of transport. Unmanned and with
seating for four, it wasn’t unusual to ride the cars alone. Running on a
flexible network of tracks, a computer at Central Traffic Control chooses
the fastest route to the customer’s destination. I bought my ticket at the
auto-dispenser then waited on the platform to be called forward. In minutes
it was my turn; the car swept in and disembarked the previous passengers,
then my ticket number was simultaneously announced over the intercom and
flashed by overhead displays.
I went to the
car and fed in my ticket. As soon as I was settled in the padded seating,
the vehicle accelerated out of the station. CTC had already signalled for
cars on the main track to anticipate my inclusion in the flow. I slipped
into a gap, the vehicles ahead having accelerated slightly and the others
behind slowing. From inside the car these speed changes are barely
perceptible. The rhythmic jostling was a welcome antidote to the
adrenalin-high shakes I was still experiencing.
It was late in
the afternoon and the office blocks passing to either side were full of busy
minds finding ways to justify their jobs. I know it’s a cynical view, but
after the revolution I’m sure administrative positions doubled at all
levels. Numa City is the capital of the Congress of Numanian states, so we
had a lot of administrators to start with.
A siren
sounded nearby and I craned to watch as an Enforcer cruiser hurled itself
through the traffic on the street below, its over-ride beacon slewing the
vehicles in its path to left and right.
My transit car
turned onto a curving branch line, immediately slipping into shadow between
two buildings, and the siren’s wail grew faint behind me.
The buildings
to either side dropped steadily in height as the car moved out of the city
centre; a swathe of trees and greenery signalling the approach to the
suburbs. The car left the main track and stopped at my local station. There
was Enforcer presence here—though just the one. He stood watching the
comings and goings through reflective sunglasses. His stun-stick was
holstered, which was a good sign.
At the foot of
the transit station steps a passing drone paused to record my progress as I
crossed the empty road and made my way into the heart of the suburban
complex where I live. These were older houses. Red brick and timber, with
real slate roofs—unusual survivors of the final battles that razed most of
the properties near the capital to the ground. Not that there were any signs
of that; as promised, the Council of Freedom had rebuilt the landscape
quickly and efficiently.
I cut
diagonally across my lawn and up the porch steps. Turning, I gazed out over
the street. Sunshine bathed the neat rows of small, detached bungalows. It
promised to be a nice evening—just right for sitting out and watching the
world go by until curfew.
Contemplating
my exit from the Plaza, I doubted whether the Enforcers would follow up on
every citizen that leaked from the edge of the sweep. It was all pretty
arbitrary and pointless anyway; they’d have most of it recorded, and all
anyone could do was fill in the confused gap between the loss of the drone’s
signal and the first drop ship arriving
#.
They came about three in the morning—a strike
team of Enforcers—announcing their arrival by firing tear gas canisters
through every window. I was on the floor in an instant, just in time to hear
both front and back doors being simultaneously blown from their hinges. A
pure nonsense, as the Enforcers have keys to all properties in Numania.
As the noise
of heavy boots approached through the darkness and gas I shouted, “You could
have just rung the doorbell!”
I got no
response.
They bundled
me face down and pulled my arms back to snap on handcuffs, then they pulled a hood over my head. I felt the sting of a sedative
injector on my shoulder and it all went black.
#
I woke in a brightly lit cell. I lay on a simple bed
platform; there was no other furniture except for a functional stainless
steel toilet. The walls, floor, and bed were all finished in white
wipe-clean ceramic tiles. I was dressed in pale blue prison clothes made
from recycled paper. Printed across the chest of the short-sleeved shirt was
the word INTERROGATION.
A voice came
from an overhead speaker. “Name?”
No point in
antagonising them, so in a clear voice I said, “Terrence Mutz.”
“Occupation?”
“Retired.”
“Former
occupation?”
“Waste disposal technician.”
There was a
long silence, then the cell door swung open and two clone-like grey-clad
Enforcers with shaven heads and square chins came in. A tall man in a white
overall followed them. His skin was pale and lifeless, almost translucent in
places. An involuntary shiver went down my spine.
“Stand,” said
the man in white.
I obliged and
the clone boys took up position to either side of me.
The man in
white produced a small hand computer and examined the screen for a few
seconds, his long, thin fingers fluttering over the computer’s keypad.
“Mutz,” he
said.
“Yes.”
The man raised
an eyebrow. “Your records seem a little sparse?”
It wasn’t the
question I had expected. I got it now; this had nothing to do with the Plaza
incident, other than my absence triggering a background investigation. I
responded by shrugging.
“We don’t have
anything on you beyond the last twelve years.”
Twelve
years—he was right—it had been twelve years since the revolution. But I
wasn’t about to try and explain anything—a lot of records had been lost
around that time. He tried another tack.
“You seem a
bit young to be retired?”
“I developed
an intolerance to the chemicals we used. Had to give it up.”
He nodded. I
was just confirming what was on his screen. He stayed quiet, so I knew I was
to keep talking.
“Normally I
couldn’t have afforded to retire but I also get a small war pension. It’s
enough to get by on.”
“Must leave
you with a lot of time on your hands?”
“I do
voluntary work at the veteran’s hospital,” I said, again knowing he already
had the information in front of him.
“Who did you
serve with?”
Now it got
tricky, I couldn’t say I was in my own team—according to history they all
died in the final assault—including me. But this had all been worked out
before so I stuck to the script. “Kelvin,” I said.
Kelvin was the
dumping ground for most unskilled volunteers. He was a career soldier before
the revolution and had a knack for turning bumpkins into fighters. In
reality, I had fought with his revolutionary brigade, but not as Mutz. As
mobile infantry, we saw action on most fronts.
The silence
was there again.
“Tenson and
Rutledge,” I said, completing the chain of command down to what could have
been my sergeant. I knew Rutledge quite well. He died late on in the
conflict, and though it felt strange to use his name this way, he wouldn’t
have minded.
“Artillery,”
the man in white suggested casually.
“Light armour
and mobile infantry,” I said, correcting him and avoiding the obvious trap.
He seemed
satisfied. “That’s all for now,” he said, waving the two Enforcers out.
I was left
alone again. Something unusual was happening—yes I had ducked out from the
sweep, but normally they weren’t as thorough as this. Maybe it was some new
directive from the top, or more likely an overenthusiastic brown-noser
trying to score points for his record.
Protesting was
useless; this would take as long as it took. I couldn’t imagine they’d have
any way to challenge my story, so it was just a question of time before they
released me.
About an hour
later I was taken from the cell and told to shower. They gave me a new set
of paper clothes, but printed on the front of this shirt was the word
HOLDING. Holding was good I thought. Holding meant waiting to be released—it
meant the interrogation was over.
But a nagging
thought played at the back of my head—holding could also mean waiting for
trial, or for transportation to prison. I pushed those thoughts away; I was
paying the price for ducking out of the Plaza. I should have stayed where I
was and got the whole thing cleared up like the rest of them.
The holding
cell had much the same layout as the interrogation cell, except that the bed
had springing and a mattress. I managed to get comfortable and drifted off
into a fitful slumber.
They must have
gassed me while I was sleeping. When I woke I was back in an interrogation
cell but this time strapped to a stainless steel chair with my head, arms
and legs in restraints. Sensors stuck to my skin made my forehead itch and
the back of my right hand stung where a needle had been inserted and taped
down. A thin tube ran from the needle, along the top of my forearm and out
of sight. It contained a clear fluid. I felt pretty clear headed, so I
concluded they hadn’t administered anything yet. If they decided to use some
sort of truth serum, things were about to get interesting.
The man in
white appeared, looking more like an animated corpse than ever.
“What is your
name?” he said.
“Terrence Mutz,
same as last time.”
His eyes
flicked down to the readout on a machine sitting on a narrow column in front
of him. He shook his head a little, adjusted something, and then said in a
low voice, “Just answer the question asked.”
I felt my
throat go dry, swallowing back the wisecrack poised on the tip of my tongue.
“Where do you
live?”
“17 Martins
Boulevard.”
“Did you ever
meet Nelson?”
“I’m not
familiar with that name.” It was an honest reply—though I couldn’t help
wondering if it was the lunchbox man from the Plaza.
He watched the
readout for a moment and seemed satisfied. The questions continued for about
an hour, sometimes repeating, sometimes innocuous. I wasn’t sure what he
would make of my answers—I had been Terrence Mutz for long enough now for me
to regard it as my real name, at least that’s what I hoped. At the end of it
all he merely nodded and said, “That will do.”
They must have
pumped in a sedative because the last thing I remember was the room going
blurry.
#
I was back in
the holding cell and predictably my shirt read HOLDING. This falling asleep
and waking up in different places was getting to me; I had cooperated for
long enough—next chance I got I would speak up and demand some rights.
I noticed my
stomach making quite audible grumbling noises and wondered if they would
give me a shirt with the word EATING on it if they got round to feeding me?
As if on cue a
small panel in the wall slid open to reveal a tray carrying a segmented
plate; each segment held a food item in the form of a different coloured
paste. I took the tray out of the wall and set it on the bed. There was no
way of knowing if the food was drugged, but what did it matter as long as it
fed me?
I decided my
favourite was the pink paste, though the actual taste was elusive. I
couldn’t quite decide if it was fish or bacon—maybe something in between;
bish or facon?
After eating,
I replaced the tray in the wall compartment. Some time later the man in
white came to visit; accompanied by the clone boys, who took up their
positions to either side.
“Terrence Mutz,”
he began, reading from his hand computer.
“I’ve had
enough of this,” I said.
I heard the
clone boys start to move and tensed for the first blows, but the man stopped
them with a gesture.
Reassured I
wasn’t about to be beaten senseless quite yet, I continued. “I’d like to
know what you think I’ve done?”
He pressed
some buttons on the computer then stared me directly in the eye. “There is
the matter of you leaving the scene of a crime—but that’s not our main
concern. The problem is that your records show signs of tampering and we
cannot release you until we find out why this is.”
My heart
sank—there was no way Nial Malik the Revolutionary Hero could explain a
comeback from the dead without being locked up as a lunatic. “I know nothing
about that,” I said, “you need to talk to the people who keep the records.”
“We have, and
they confirm that the records have been altered—and not by them.”
I clamped my
jaw shut, counted to five then said, “I want to see a lawyer.”
“Tampering
with state records is regarded as a terrorist activity, and as such you can
be detained indefinitely without legal representation.”
“Since
when?”
“These powers
have been available for some time.”
“So what
happens now?”
He stared at
me for a full five seconds before replying, “I think that’s up to you.”
I
wanted to scream out at him—if you knew who I was you wouldn’t be doing
this! What I managed was, “I know nothing about this. Let me speak to
someone else.”
He shook his
head. “If you have nothing to add to your statement, we’ll conclude our
interview here.”
“Statement,
what statement?”
“The
privileges of legal representation and various other rights do not apply in
this situation. Everything you have said and done since your records were
altered twelve years ago is admissible as evidence in this case.”
“Outrageous!”
I blustered. “It’ll take forever to check the last twelve years. What
happens in the meantime?”
The man in
white allowed a thin smile to form on his face. “You’ll be placed in a
secure holding facility.”
I felt it all
slipping away, and a fearful pain dug at my chest. It was that word HOLDING
again—but not the good kind of holding where I get dumped on the street in
an hour’s time without even an apology—this was the bad kind of holding—the
one with no end in sight, no way to get help, and no way to prove my
innocence.
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