She kicked off her shoes and set down the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. It was hot outside, the air thick and stuffy, clinging to her skin and leaving beads of sweat glistening along her arms. The milk would go sour soon, curdle even, if she didn't hurry to the fridge with it.
"Hey baby."
She started suddenly, her body tightening as her gaze darted around.
"Elsa?"
She relaxed, exhaled, let her muscles relax, chided herself.
"Hey Dave."
This wasn't working.
"Come in here," he called from the living room. "I've got a little surprise."
"One sec." She flipped open the fridge door and carefully placed the milk behind the row of lettuce and cauliflower that she was saving for the evening. The door clicked shut, quieting the gentle hum of power, and Elsa walked towards the living room.
The TV in the far corner was on. Dave was sitting back against the sofa, watching the news report that blared out.
"Hi Else." He picked up the handset and lowered the volume, rendering the people onscreen mute, preaching to deaf ears.
"Heya." She climbed onto the sofa and curled up beside him, gripping his shirt and pulling him close.
He kissed her, quickly, then settled back, his eyes fixed on her own. "You look tired," he said at last.
Her lips curled in a tight grin. "Thanks honey, you too."
"No, I mean it." He took her hand. "Have you had problems sleeping?"
"Yeah." She frowned. For a moment, she stared blankly ahead, avoiding eye-contact by pretending to be absorbed by the current news report. When his gaze flickered around to see what she was concentrating on, the frown vanished, replaced by a slight smile. She tugged at his sleeve. "Why? Worried you're not tiring me out?"
He looked back at her. The worry creasing his features vanished in an instant, smoothed over. "I've got tickets tonight--for a concert, I mean. It's been too long since we've gone out somewhere special."
Her grip on him relaxed suddenly. "I'm working tonight."
"You work every night."
She slipped forward, leaning up to kiss him.
He pulled back. "Elsa, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, baby. Really. Just work on our current project at the electronics department."
"Okay. We'll go some other time."
She smiled. "Sure we will."
They sat in silence. His hand was warm, the skin smooth to her fingertips. Leaning against him, she could feel his heart pounding against his chest, drumming against her own body. But his eyes were cold and distant. He could give her all the signals, all the signs that said that she was his world--but he didn't want to look at her.
It hurt.
"Hey."
"What?"
Dave depressed a button on the remote, letting the volume rise.
Her attention returned to the news report.
"We return to the main item of today: the rebel attack on the munitions factory, which left twelve workers dead and fifty others injured."
A slow montage of photos appeared before her, sprouting from the film that showed the ruined ashes of the facility. In one, a body rose into view, charred beyond recognition; in the next, a man was lying away from the camera, one arm across his chest as though it alone could prevent the life inside from seeping into the dirt; and later on, the corpses together, spread out into ordered rows, shrouds over their faces.
The worst were shown only in black and white.
"City guards later apprehended two of the rebels. They will appear before an interrogation tribunal this afternoon and, once tried, will likely face the one and only penalty sufficient for such callous treason."
A tear brimmed in Elsa's eye.
She looked quickly away. She stared into a mirror adorning the far wall, but her reflection appeared vague and distant. It wobbled in her misted vision, out of focus, flickering back and forth, its gaze never meeting her own.
Only now, as Dave wrapped an arm around her waist, did she feel something genuine.
"Report."
"Two rebels--one male, one female--captured in the sewers late last night, sir. Sector seven gamma."
Security Chief Stimms gave a satisfied grunt. As they rounded a corner, he quickened his pace down the hallway, dimly lit from below. Their footfalls clanged on the metal grating, and the exhausted guard struggled to keep up.
"Were there any others?"
"Several, sir, but they escaped by transmat," reported the male guard. "Security has been doubled at our remaining munitions factory, as ordered."
A doorway parted before them with a faint hiss, and Stimms stepped inside with the air of a doctor ready to view the next patient. A man and a woman wearing battered black fatigues sat on stools in the centre of the room; the illuminated outline of a square surrounded them on the polished metal floor. The redheaded male's right leg was bandaged; he kept his gaze focused on the floor. The woman eyed Stimms with disgust through dishevelled brown locks. Against the wall opposite the entrance stood another guard, between two doors.
Stimms glanced from his electronic notepad to the rebels and back again. "Thompson and Hunter. Not such a clean getaway in the sewers this time, hmm? Sold out by rats--fellow vermin."
One of the guards snickered.
"A munitions factory destroyed, fifty injured, twelve men and women dead." He looked up from his notepad. "Men and women with families."
Thompson shivered. "It was the graveyard shift," he muttered. "There was supposed to be minimal staff present."
"Obviously not, fool," replied Stimms. "Did your leader ever consider recruiting some half-competent spies?"
"Your hands are hardly free of blood," Hunter said.
Stimms tapped his notepad. "You realize your latest disturbance to city operations has caused quite the uproar in the media. The citizens are expecting an eye for an eye."
The rebels stared at the floor.
"I can be merciful though." He approached Thompson and Hunter, and leaned forward. "Co-operate with this investigation. Give me the details of the strength of your forces, the location of your bases and plans for any attacks expected in the near future. Give me this, and I'll spare you a death sentence--and a considerable amount of discomfort before then."
The pair remained silent, their eyes fixed on the floor.
"Hmm," said Stimms. "Thought not." He signalled the two guards to approach. One of them touched a button on his wrist monitor, which turned off the illuminated square surrounding the rebels. Offering little struggle, each was seized by a guard. "Now, which of you will be the first to volunteer for the Berthol-Stimms examination?"
The rebels said nothing, but Hunter's jaw tightened, either with anger or with fear. The guards shifted nervously on their feet.
"No one?" said Stimms, looking at each rebel intently. He sighed, and stuck out a hand, his finger pointing to each one in turn as he muttered, "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo." His finger settled on Thompson. Then he pointed to Hunter and repeated the phrase, his finger dancing between them. The guards smiled nervously. He pointed at Hunter.
"You're a sick bastard," she said, her voice low.
Then he pointed to Thompson. "Him. Take him."
The redhead hollered and struggled, but with his hands gripped tightly behind him, he was no match for the burly guard. The other guard forced Hunter into her stool, took a step back and turned on the illuminated square. Turning to the back wall, he tapped a button on his wrist monitor and the right-hand door slid open. As the other guard forced Thompson inside, Hunter caught a glimpse of a large chair with restraints and inlaid with readout displays; the contraption was illuminated by a spotlight above. The door slid shut, cutting off Thompson's cries of protest.
Hunter turned her worried gaze to Stimms. "He'll tell you nothing: he's a devoted member of the rebellion, a loyal follower of Grogan."
The Security Chief stood before the left-hand door, glancing at his notepad. "Spare me the same old spiel. With little provocation, he'll soon realize just how hopeless your misguided cause is." He nodded to the guard and the door slid open before him. Glancing over his shoulder, he added, "It surprises me just how much deranged propaganda you and your companions have allowed Grogan to shovel down your throats." The door shut as Stimms sat at a desk console against the wall adjoining the other room. Thompson's guard re-emerged into the room, and the two guards took up posts before each door.
Hunter could just make out Stimm's calm voice over the hum of machinery. For several minutes, which passed like hours, she paced back and forth within the confines of the illuminated square. A muffled cry passed through the right-hand door.
"Thompson!"
"Quiet," said the one guard, who had difficulty meeting Hunter's gaze.
The muffled cries rose in volume to terrified screams.
"Stop this! This torture . . . What's that butcher doing to him?"
"You'll find out soon enough," muttered the other guard.
Hunter kicked the stool with a frustrated cry. It bounced off the invisible field surrounding the illuminated square with a burst of light, crashing beside her.
The screams stopped and the hum of the machinery faded. The left-hand door slid open and Stimms passed through, tapping away at his notepad. "Clear him out and prepare her," he told the guards. They entered the other room, where Thompson lay sprawled in the chair, his mouth agape and his dead eyes staring.
Tears welled up in Hunter's eyes as her mouth formed a snarl and her fists clenched.
"Hmm, he probably knew little anyway," Stimms said, disappointed. He gave the woman a half-smile. "But I'm sure you'll prove to be a wealth of knowledge."
Grogan also commends the bravery of the loyal rebels sentenced during today's interrogation tribunal. Their efforts to usher in a new age of freedom on Tranta shall not be in vain.
Only when Martin Rixx accepts the views of others shall the unrest end.
Ace stood on a hill, surrounded by birch and pine trees. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the grey sky, and the chill winds passed through her. She did up her jacket and crossed her arms over her body for warmth. From the clearing at the crest of the hill, she spotted an expanse of beach below dotted with boulders. She frowned, scanning the horizon out at sea for any detail that might tell her how she came to be here. Nothing presented itself.
"What the hell--"
"Hello, Ace," said a voice behind her.
Ace whirled around--
--and she woke to find herself on a cot in a dimly lit, crowded room. Somebody was kneeling close to her, offering her a glass of water.
"Your first time through a transmat device?"
Through clouded vision, Ace made out a young Asian woman, her head bandaged. A man in military fatigues carrying a medical kit tended to others around her also laying in cots. Ikuko gave Ace a sidelong glance and a tentative smile. "I'm sorry we didn't get off to such a great start. It's hard to trust anybody these days."
"But you can trust, Ace," said a new voice. Everyone turned around and jumped to attention. The crowd parted to reveal a slender man who came to a halt before Ace. His deeply lined face had a ruddy complexion; wisps of silver hair adorned the sides of his bald head. His loose-fitting black fatigues sported red epaulets.
"As you were," he told the room with a deep, majestic voice. He settled his large brown eyes on Ace. "I am Paul Grogan, leader of the rebellion." She hesitated a moment before shaking his outstretched, gloved hand. He nodded his head and turned to the others. "Ace is a newcomer to our rebel cause, but that doesn't mean we can't trust her."
The others eyed her curiously.
"She is a close friend of the Doctor, so I'm confident her heart is with us."
Ace sat up, propping herself on her elbows. "You know the Doctor? He told you about me?"
Grogan turned around to face her. "Yes, he asked me to keep an eye out for you on Tranta."
"Where is he?" Ikuko gripped Ace's shoulder, preventing her from getting out of the cot.
"He comes and goes as he pleases, and his visits are brief."
"That sounds like the Professor, all right," said Ace. Grogan raised a bushy eyebrow. "A nickname. I call him that," she explained.
"Ace, welcome to our headquarters," said Grogan. "If you'll excuse me, I have pressing matters to attend to, but Ikuko will show you around the base and tell you everything you need to know about our struggle."
"Yes, sir." Ikuko eased her grip on Ace's shoulder.
"Right. Carry on." As he neared the doorway with a brisk march, a man called "Room!" and everyone again came stiffly to attention. Once he disappeared down the hallway, the room came alive again with activity.
Ace stood up and gave her companion a big smile. "So I'm officially a rebel now--do I have to sign anything?"
Ikuko looked confused.
"Kidding."
"Are you feeling better then? If so, I can start showing you around." She straightened out her fatigues and touched her bandaged head with tentative fingers.
Ace grabbed her jacket, hanging off the edge of the cot. "Let the tour begin."
Prentis leaned back in his desk chair and exhaled in frustration. The floor of the rectory was still littered with notes, texts and charts; his efforts to organize things had only resulted in shifting the mess from one side of the room to the other. The research he loved, spending long hours pouring over historical texts, political minutes, survey charts and operations records. Uncovering patterns, facts, oversights and quirks to support the Morestran Orthodox Church's cause was his drive.
In the last few years, he had had little time to devote to his local commitments. Fortunately, the rural population who made up his congregation were content enough with his last minute sermons, and he had the Gardeners to aid him with farming and church maintenance. But despite his years of research, he had continually put off incorporating the mounds of facts and figures occupying his floor into anything concrete or worthwhile.
Informing Bishop Mahoney he could prepare a presentation in a month or a week at the earliest was stretching the truth, of course. It would take a year to assemble a treatise that Martin Rixx would even devote a minute of his time to read. Prentis only had two days. Suddenly, excommunication didn't seem so bad a punishment. He ran a hand through his dishevelled fair hair and contemplated tearing it all out.
A raucous groan from outside caused him to jump out of his chair. Peering out the window, he caught sight of four Gardeners struggling to seize control of a thrashing Outat. The reverend dashed down the concrete stairs and through the back exit. The scuffle was taking place before the stables: two Gardeners desperately seized the reins to the beast's harness as it lurched to and fro; another Gardener circled the large beast holding a charged prod; a fourth made a dash to rescue a fallen companion in danger of being crushed underfoot.
The beast suddenly swung round on the brave Gardener and sent it flying with its bone-plated mass. The Gardener with the prod advanced and delivered a charged bolt into the Outat's side. Prentis darted in as the beast groaned and circled round, and he snatched up the crimson-robed bundle. The other Gardeners seized tighter on the reins, but the beast still struggled. Another charged bolt, a groan and the Outat collapsed in a dazed state.
The two Gardeners released the reins and whispered to each other with fluctuating chirrups. One went to check on the Gardener knocked to the ground, while the other approached Prentis. The reverend set down the bundle gently at his feet.
"What caused all this commotion?"
The Gardener remained silent; its cowl overshadowed its face save a protruding beak. Then it turned and pointed to the Outat's hind legs; the Gardener's reptilian claw glinted in the fading evening light. A small dart protruded from the beast's buttocks.
"Those rascal neighbourhood children again, I suppose?"
The Gardener nodded.
"Can your two companions handle the Outat on their own while we carry the other two inside?"
The Gardener approached its companions and chirruped a few orders. They seized the reins of the beast and, with a painful groan, it stumbled to its feet. As they led it into the stable, the Gardener shouldered the weight of its dazed companion. Prentis picked up the unconscious one before him, and all together they entered the church.
The group headed downstairs, their footfalls echoing down the concrete stairwell. At the foot of the stairs, a long, narrow passageway extended before them, lit by wall lamps. They passed several wooden doors--personal chambers--before entering the open doorway to the common area. A crackling blaze in the fireplace filled the room with an inviting warmth. A Gardener preparing a meal and stoking the fire rushed over with water as the group deposited their burdens on tables in the centre of the room.
"That one had the wind knocked out of it--may have some internal injuries as well," Prentis said to the Gardener who had been attending the fireplace. It wore a necklace with an intricate crystal pendant. "But the other must have been hit quite hard indeed."
It shook its head. "That one is dead," it said in clipped, whispered English.
The reverend bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Elder. I'll be sure to have a word with the parents of those children."
"That would be of little use." The Elder approached the body and lay a hand on its arm. "This one was already dead when the Outat lashed out. The children think of us only as Church slaves and their parents little better."
Prentis opened his mouth to refute, but wisely kept quiet.
The nearby blaze reflected in the Elder's large eyes as it turned to face him. "You have done much for the Shly-Ka, Prentis, and we are grateful."
The reverend smiled. The Gardeners chirruped to each other as their companion came to; they continued bandaging its chest.
"But with each passing month we spend away from the lunar sanctuaries of Antuath, our bodies weaken, our concentration dwindles and our spirits wither." The Elder gripped the dead Gardener's arm. "In a few years, we shall all pass on. Our numbers will quickly diminish, as none of us has the strength for Rebirth."
Prentis' gaze fell to the floor. "Those Shly-Ka relics I recovered from the Morestran treasuries--are they of no use?"
"Mere ceremonial trinkets, I am afraid. We share a symbiotic relationship with Antuath, Prentis. Its energy strengthens us, nurtures us, enlightens us. It is our lifeline--our air and water. Here, on this rural Morestran planet, we are no better than prisoners, despite the liberties you have afforded us." The Elder released his grip on the Gardener.
Prentis chose his next words carefully. "Elder, I know the Shly-Ka think little better of the Church than the Morestrans or Martin Rixx. They each have their own reasons for keeping you away from Antuath. But I may have a solution--a way to bring some of you home."
The other Gardeners turned their heads towards the reverend.
"In a few days, I'm heading to Tranta on behalf of the Church. I'm meeting with Martin Rixx to discuss the establishment of a Church presence in his city."
"He is wary of outside influence," said the Elder.
"Don't I know it. But if I can at least get my foot in the door, I promise to bring a few of you to act as my aids on Tranta. In fact, I would like you, Elder, to accompany me to the city for my meeting."
The Elder was silent a moment and turned to his companions. A few chirps and murmurs were exchanged. It returned its attention to the reverend. "I am grateful for this honour, Prentis, but surely my presence may jeopardize your talks with Rixx?"
"The Shly-Ka and your cause are part of my presentation. I thought it best to have one of you present." He extended his hand towards the Elder. It rested its claw on his palm and he smiled.
One of the Gardeners produced a crystal vial from its robes, removed the stopper and emptied a clear liquid along the length of the deceased.
"I believe you are the first human to witness a Shly-Ka funeral, Prentis," said the Elder.
As the crimson robes absorbed the liquid, a blue glow emanated from the dead Gardener. The light intensified as it consumed. Prentis covered his eyes. A flash, and darkness flooded the room once more. Half opening his eyes, he made out an empty table in the firelight and tendrils of smoke extending to each of the Gardeners. Their eyes shone like embers underneath their cowls.
Ikuko led Ace into a small auditorium. People were scattered around the seats, chatting amongst themselves. The stage was dark.
"What's going on?" asked Ace.
"Well, you wanted to know what this struggle was about," said Ikuko. "It so happens that the rebel youth are putting on a dramatization as part of their history project."
Ace rolled her eyes. "You're taking me to a kid's play? You're kidding me."
Ikuko placed a finger to her lips and motioned for her to sit down. The audience gradually hushed as the curtains parted. A dozen children wearing torn and tattered coveralls operated painted buttons and levers on the cardboard sets. Three boys dressed in black suits walked onstage from behind the curtain.
"We're not even close to filling our quota today!" said the first boy to the others while examining readouts.
"The Galactic Mining Corporation always delivers on time. What will we do?" said the second boy.
Looking at the workers, the third yelled, "All right you lazy slobs, work harder! Work faster!"
The worker children groaned.
"Whatever profits we lose come out of your pay!" threatened the first.
The second boy pointed to the large, bright blue and violet ball dangling just above the sets. "The gas giant Antuath is a source of precious energy. Work doesn't stop till we've refined it all!"
"If you want to stay on Tranta, a glory--um, glorious space city built by you workers, you have to work non-stop!" announced the third.
"Time is money," said the first.
"You can sleep when you're dead," said the second.
"Unions mean no profits, and no profits mean no jobs," said the third.
The three exited the stage.
"It's not fair," said a girl worker. "We work hard all day, while they have meetings and yell at us."
"Yeah!" a boy worker cried. "We built Tranta, we mine Antuath and we refine the energy. They just sell it."
Other worker children voiced their complaints:
"I have no money to feed my family!"
"There's nothing to do on Tranta but work and sleep!"
"It's been years since I've heard from friends on Earth."
"Water costs too much!"
"I have to go to the bathroom!" A little boy ran off the stage.
The play reminded Ace of her grade school performance of A Christmas Carol; she couldn't help but smile. She had played Bob Cratchit's daughter, Belinda, despite asking for the part of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Still, it made Mum happy, taking her shopping for a dress.
"Why should we have to suffer while the Corporation keeps getting richer?" a tall, dark-haired boy told the crowd of workers.
A fair-haired boy joined him. "We need a workers' union! We must make the Corporation listen to our needs!"
"Union! Union!" yelled the workers in unison.
The three dark-uniformed boys returned. "Get back to work!" cried the first Corporation boy.
"No! Not until you listen to our demands!" replied the dark-haired boy.
"We're forming a union!" added his companion.
"Never!" cried the second Corporation boy.
"Guards--attack!" announced the third.
Six boys and girls, with helmets and plastic guns, ran onto the stage, and a battle between them and the workers ensued. Boys and girls on either side feigned death until only the three Corporation boys, the dark- and fair-haired boys, and a few workers remained standing.
"Who are you? What do you want from us?" asked the Corporation boys.
"I am Paul Grogan," announced the fair-haired boy with a gun pointed at them.
"And I'm Martin Rixx," said his dark-haired companion.
"We are putting you under arrest for all the years of suffering you have caused," said Paul.
"The Union now controls Tranta, and we will continue to mine Antuath's energy by our own rules!" added Martin.
"All wealth will be divided evenly among the workers!"
The workers cheered in triumph and the curtains closed.
"Is that it?" Ace asked Ikuko as the audience cheered and applauded.
"No, it's just the first act."
Ace smiled. "I kept expecting Lenin to walk out from behind the curtains."
Ikuko fixed her a curious glance. "Who?"
The crowd hushed as the curtains reopened. Martin and Paul sat at desks in the centre of the stage, surrounded by happy workers manning the painted controls. The two boys read over reports.
"Union approval is high, profits are through the roof and poverty is at an all-time low," said Paul with a big smile.
Martin frowned. "There was another Corporation attack today. Will they ever leave us alone?"
"We could build attack spaceships," suggested Paul. "Our buyers would help defend us too."
Martin picked up another piece of paper, read it over and smiled. "The Morestrans have offered to defend us against the Corporation with their powerful spaceships."
"That will be a big help. But what do they want in return?"
"We have to sell all our refined energy to them and to no one else," said Martin.
"But our other buyers won't be happy."
Martin continued, "And they want a reduced cost, since they'll be buying so much."
Paul stood up. "That's not right! Our buyers will get upset and--and they"--he looked down at his report--"they won't sell us supplies anymore. We'll have to buy them all from the Morestrans."
Martin stood up as well. "The Morestrans are very powerful! If the Corporation knew they were defending us, they would never attack again."
Paul crossed his arms.
"The Morestrans need our help: they're running out of energy to power their Empire," Martin pleaded.
"I say we put this to a vote. We'll let the workers decide!" said Paul.
A dozen boys and girls walked onstage and stood behind Paul Grogan and Martin Rixx.
"Whoever wants to sell energy to lots of planets and to keep the Union in control of Tranta, put up your hand," Paul announced.
Half the crowd on stage put up their hands.
Martin stepped forward. "Whoever wants to stop all Corporation attacks, help our friends the Morestrans and live in peace, put up your hand."
The other half lifted their hands.
"It's a split vote; what do we do now?" asked Paul.
"I want you and your supporters to leave," replied Martin. Suddenly, a half dozen boys and girls--the same who played the Corporation guards--walked on stage wearing blue and white, and holding plastic guns. Paul's supporters gathered around him.
"We'll leave, but prepare for war, Martin Rixx. Tranta is for the workers, not the Morestrans!" Paul announced and his supporters cheered.
The curtains closed once more.
Ikuko leaned over. "Pretty exciting, isn't it? Grogan has always fought for the workers of Tranta."
Ace nodded and smiled uneasily. "How did the Doctor get involved in all this?"
"You'll see," Ikuko whispered, and the curtains opened once again.
The fair-haired boy and his supporters walked across the stage, past painted buildings--the reverse side of the mining control room set. "Martin Rixx may be running operations on Tranta now, but with your help, we'll reclaim the city for the Union--the workers of Tranta," Paul declared over cheers from his entourage.
Suddenly, a stocky boy and a red-haired girl appeared from around a building.
"Stop!" cried one of Paul's followers. "Identify yourselves!"
"I am Doctor Smith and this is my friend Melanie."
Ace chuckled and covered her mouth to avoid drawing attention. The boy wore a brown jacket over a white shirt with a large, red painted question mark. He doffed his straw hat to Paul and his followers. The girl had a full head of red, curly hair and wore a blue polka dot dress. Is she going to scream, too? thought Ace.
"Did Rixx send you?" Paul asked the strangers.
"No, I've come from off-world to help your cause," offered Doctor Smith.
"Do you represent one of our buyers?"
"Yes, and I wish to bring this war to an end," said Doctor Smith with his hands on his hips.
Paul approached the strangers and shook their hands. "We're on our way to the Capitol. Rixx will hear out our cause or else."
"Is Rixx the leader of this space city?" asked Doctor Smith.
"He thinks he is, but the workers are the true leaders!" The statement received cheers from Grogan's supporters. "He's nothing without the Morestrans."
Doctor Smith rubbed his chin. "I want to meet with Rixx. Perhaps, um--" He glanced at a woman in the front row, who whispered something back. "Perhaps I could negotiate a compromise."
"We'll see," Paul added. "To the Capitol!"
"Hold!" cried the Morestrans, wearing blue and white, as they surrounded the crowd on stage, pointing plastic guns. The dark-haired boy soon joined them.
"I've had enough of you and your band of rebels, Paul," Martin said. "If you don't abandon your cause and follow me, I will banish you all off Tranta!"
"We will never follow you! The workers are the true rulers of Tranta, not the Morestran Empire!"
Another battle broke out on stage and Melanie emitted a high-pitched scream. Ace winced. Paul ushered Doctor Smith and Melanie beside a building.
"You'd better leave, you two, or you'll be killed."
"We can't just leave you!" pleaded Melanie.
"You're no help to me dead."
"I promise to return with help for you and your supporters!" Doctor Smith said, leading Melanie off stage.
The Morestrans seized Paul and the surviving rebels.
"I'm banishing you all to the moons of Antuath," Martin declared. "Guards, take them away!"
"We shall meet again, Rixx," threatened Paul as he was led away. "Tranta is ruled by the workers!"
The curtains closed and the audience stood, applauding and cheering loudly. The child actors filed out from behind the curtains and bowed.
"Weren't they terrific, Ace?"
"Cute, very cute." Ace clapped her hands and gave Ikuko a half-smile. "Quite the history lesson."
The setting sun cast a crimson glow over high-rises, while tendrils of darkness snaked through alleyways below. Workers filled the sidewalks, while aerobuses stopped or hovered past in a white blur. Other citizens exited the transports and filed into office buildings and factories. And so began the nightshift--six o'clock exactly. He didn't need to check his watch: Rixx had run the workweek like clockwork since Stimm's youth, working on an assembly line. To most of Tranta, six a.m. and p.m. were instincts.
"Off," Stimms said. The scene before him was replaced by a black wall. He turned around to face a door. 59, 60, 61, 62. The elevator halted. He continued staring patiently at the digital display above.
"Security scan for level sixty-three required," said a female voice.
"Proceed." A beam of light passed over Stimms' figure from head to toe.
"Weapon free. DNA identified," said the voice. "The Controller will see you, Security Chief Stimms."
The elevator ascended another floor and the door parted with a chime. He paused in the bare hallway, his feet clanging on the metal grating, and reviewed the rebels' mental readouts from the interrogation. With a sigh, he replaced the notepad in his shirt pocket, continued down the hallway and passed through an open doorway.
"Sir," he announced, coming to attention.
"One moment," replied a raspy voice.
Never a spare moment, Stimms smiled to himself and rocked gently on his heels. Shimmers from the porthole windows around the room caught his eye: intricate strands of biomolecular computers floated within viscous liquid, bathing the interior of Central Control in an azure glow. Sparkles of light danced over the walls from a network of inlaid photonic circuits. Unlike the whirs and clicks of machinery, the technology pulsed, mesmerized.
A dizzying swirl of voices filled Rixx's centre of operations; males and females muttered status reports, repeated commands and whispered daily agenda items:
"Refinery upgrades have increased production by five percent."
"Orbital stabilizer system updates compiled and debugged."
"Eighty percent approval rating for Take Your Child To Work Day."
"Memorial service for deceased munitions factor workers to be telecast at noon tomorrow."
Stimms cleared his throat. "Controller?"
"Now what?" The gravelly voice came from behind the bulky, high-backed chair at the centre of the room. It swivelled round to reveal a lanky, decrepit man. Sullen black eyes darted over holographic readout screens floating before him. One hand tapped at a keypad on the chair arm, while the other scratched a beard that hid sallow skin. "Report, Stimms."
The Security Chief took a deep breath. "I've interrogated the rebel pair caught last night. They offered up little--only half as many details as interrogations six months ago."
Rixx gave Stimms a quick glance. "Suspicions?"
"I suspect the rebels have developed a resistance drug."
The readout screens dispersed at the tap of a button, and Rixx fixed his full gaze on Stimms. "Or perhaps one of your guards is leaking information--a rebel insider."
Stimms pursed his lips. "But sir, my men and women are screened regularly--"
"Don't underestimate Grogan's persuasiveness, Stimms. He is very clever, very resourceful . . . but misguided." He glanced sidelong and traced a finger along one of the tubes that fed into his arm.
Stimms recalled his youth, working in the refineries. Then--almost forty years ago--he knew Rixx only as a stern, authoritative face with close-cropped black hair that appeared on daily telecasts. With a deep, rich voice, he praised the efforts of the workers; assured them a new era of peace and prosperity for Tranta through results, not promises; swore that their Morestran allies would extinguish Corporation intrusion and greed. Through devotion and determination, Stimms rose through the ranks to become Rixx's right-hand man--but at the cost of innocence. The face of leadership now filling viewscreens in factories and the homes of citizens was a mere simulation. It was the face Stimms knew as a boy, but with a few more wrinkles and streaks of silver.
Reality was the withered, hollow shell of a man before him, with thinning, dishevelled hair and a scraggly beard. The mind of Rixx was still great, its vision vast, its intellect belittling. But grey matter and nerves would soon shrivel to dust with the rest of the body, seemingly at the faintest touch.
"Your assessment of the rebel attack?" asked Rixx.
"Quick action by the guards prevented the rebels from destroying the munitions factory whole." Stimms glanced at his notepad. "Repairs are well underway. The robotic tracking rats caught them by surprise in the sewers. We spotted their escape this time, by portable transmat device."
"Then this matter is no longer a concern of mine," said Rixx, abruptly turning around in his chair.
Stimms hesitated a moment. "Controller."
"You test my patience, Security Chief."
"The rebel attacks to date have been small and isolated, but there are signs of a wider conspiracy." He ran a hand through his hair. "With your approval, I wish to impose further security measures: random personnel checks, checkpoints throughout the city--"
"Those would limit worker efficiency," said Rixx. "Other, less intrusive measures exist to maintain the security of Tranta. I suggest you review operation logs in depth for ideas."
"Sir--"
"Controller Rixx," said the same female voice from the elevator, drowning out the others. "The Morestran ambassador's shuttle has arrived and is commencing docking procedures."
"Take over, Intelligence," said Rixx. "I will go and meet her."
"Assuming temporary command of Tranta," replied the Intelligence.
With a click, the tubes feeding into Rixx's arm retracted into the chair. He removed a coronet, which monitored brain waves, and set it on the chair arm. He grabbed a pair of canes, affixed to either side of the chair, and struggled to prop himself up. Stimms knew better than to assist his leader. With slow, cautious steps, Rixx came to a hault by the Security Chief's side.
"Come. Let us greet the Ambassador together."