I woke to a hand gently rocking my chest. Bleary-eyed, I traced the outline of a figure against the dark room standing over me. What time is it? I laid my head back down and tried to roll over, assuming the person was an aberration of a leftover dream. The hand rocked me again, this time more forcibly, pulling my torso out of its turn.
“Jack, get up,” the figure whispered.
“Peter?”
“Yeah.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just get up. We need to get going.”
Get going? Where?
I sat up, straining my abdomen to shake off the sleep nestled into my limbs. No light seeped through the window coverings besides the stray strands of yellow illumination from a street lamp. The room was filled with the shallow breaths of nearly a hundred others - the floor littered with snoozing bodies. I followed Peter to the door, taking care to step where he did to avoid trampling on anyone below.
Constantine released me, allowing me some freedom, but always under the watchful eye of his revolutionaries. My wrists still burned from the binds, but the marks were fading. I joined the rest of the PLM. I wasn’t one of them— just a stranger among them at the grace of their leader. Still, after days of solitude, outside of the occasional conversation with Constantine, being around others was a welcome respite from my own thoughts.
Peter led me to a kitchen lined with stainless steel prep tables and the twisted tubed remnants of long-removed ovens. The holograms at the base of the walls were smashed in, leaving the surfaces free of their synthetic mask. Constantine was sitting on one of the tables, surrounded by a handful of others. They spoke in hushed tones until we approached close enough to be in earshot. Constantine raised his hand to one of the speakers, taking the opportunity to greet us.
“Good morning, Jack. Brother.”
“Morning. Is it morning?”
Constantine chuckled. “Yes, early morning but still morning.”
“What’s the plan, brother?” Peter asked.
“Thanks to Jack here, we’re adjusting our strategy. We’re going to become more focused, more measured in our efforts. Now, today’s just a small job. But, like I was telling the others, hopefully, it will be the first step in igniting the flame the people of this city so desperately needs.”
“Hanging on every word, brother,” Peter joked, drawing a smile from Constantine’s lips.
“There’s a patrol going through the heights this morning. We’ve tracked their movements over the past several days. They’ve taken the same route every time. We’ll lay ordinance for a primary detonation tonight. Then, we’ll scout the potential QRF routes. Once we have those laid out, we’ll go back tomorrow night to lay the secondary ordnance.”
Ordnance - improvised explosives. A simple yet effective tool. But why am I here?
“And the patrol size?”
“Ten, maybe more.”
“You want to lure out the QRF?” Peter asked.
“Yes. This doesn’t work without them.”
“I don’t know, brother. Hitting a routine patrol is one thing. Taking on their QRF is another.”
Constantine nodded in acknowledgment. “Like I said, we’re adjusting our approach. Now, if we can take out at least five, I’m fairly certain they’ll send the QRF. If we only get two or three, then most likely not.”
“If we lure out the calvary, what then?”
“That’s where the secondary charges come in.” Constantine paused momentarily. When Peter stayed quiet, he continued. “Aaron, here, had a stroke of luck it would seem. The GCS selected one of his family members, may they rest in peace, for sanitation duty for the next month,” he said, gripping the shoulder of a young man standing next to him. “Aaron was able to secure sanitation uniforms for us. That’s how we’ve been able to slip in and out of the heights without drawing attention. There’s a pile of uniforms at the end of the table. Find a size that fits and put it on. We’ll step out in twenty minutes,” Constantine finished, lifting himself up and off the table.
As the rest of the group dispersed, I grabbed Peter’s arm before he could walk off. “What ordnance? Why’s he talking about a quick reaction force?”
“The primary detonation should invoke a response. The capital guard will have to send their QRF if we can get enough of them in the first blast. Then, I guess we take out as many as possible in the second det.”
Taken directly from the playbook. I didn’t think he’d take it so literally.
Peter tried to leave, but I grabbed his sleeve again. “Where’s the heights? That’s not a neighborhood, is it?”
“It’s a neighborhood built over an older one below it. Low-ranking bureaucrats live there. That’s why there’s patrols.”
“No, I—”
“No, what?”
“I can’t be a part of this.”
Peter looked over at Constantine, whose jovial stance contrasted against his solemn one.
“I can’t force you, Jack. In the end, it’s up to you to decide what you do.”
I nodded and stepped back. I had fought against insurgencies my whole career. Their barbaric tactics and utter disregard for the civilian populace were abhorrent. Civilian deaths weren’t just common. They were necessary.
“You can sit this one out. I don’t know what Constantine will do with you, though.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I’m just trying to be honest,” Peter said, closing the gap between us to put a hand on my shoulder. “We can help each other, Jack. You show us what you know. Help us get into the Capital - and we’ll get you access to the archives, just like we promised,” Peter said, flicking his eyes over to Constantine. “I can’t promise you’ll find what you’re looking for, but I promise if there’s something to found, it’s in there.”
He stepped away and grabbed a uniform off the table. I hesitantly took it. At the time, his reasoning was sound. I couldn’t argue. Agency was a luxury I just didn’t have. Those weeks in the Capital made me painfully aware of that fact. I didn’t have it with them either, but at least they promised to help.
The uniform, a deep blue blouse and matching pants, was wider than it was long. My midriff was exposed, and my ankles shone bare in what appeared to be flood pants. Peter smirked, catching my smile as I looked down at the ridiculous fit.
“Doesn’t exactly help you blend in, does it?”
“I meant to ask at the Capital why everyone is so short? Everyone except the Secretary General?”
“A century and a half of malnutrition,” Constantine weighed in.
“There was an unexpected cooling of the planet about three hundred years ago. Food became scarce. Average height across the globe plummeted,” Peter added.
“That was post-unification, though?”
“Whatever flowery messages they lulled you within the capital, I assure you things are quite different in reality,” Constantine replied.
“What’s this for?” I asked, taking a block necklace from Constantine as he passed.
“It’s an identity projector. Put it around your neck. It’s not foolproof but should obscure you from facial recognition.”
Peter dawned his, projecting a nearly indistinguishable new face across his. The nose and chin were the same, but now he wore the appearance of a much older man.
“Do we need anything to hide us from the DNA sensors?” I jested.
Peter grinned. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he paused before leaning in and finishing, “Try not to look at the birds, though. They’re not real.”
Peter patted my shoulder before catching up with his brother.
“Was that a Joke?”
“They’re camera drones,” he called back.
Constantine was the first out the door. The group split into separate directions, each three-man squad taking a different street or alley. The city was dark but bustling. Even at this time of night, the streets were lined with people, their clothes in tatters as they huddled for warmth around grates billowing clouds of steam from below. The buildings wore their typical architectural projections but were dimmer and less pronounced at night. Hollow lanterns flanking every door flickered with an artificial fire.
“I thought there would be a curfew,” I mumbled, noting the crowded sidewalks.
“There is. But there’s not enough housing for everyone in the city,” a deep voice explained in a gravel tone.
I looked back to find one of the escorts from before bringing up the rear. His stature was diminished under the cover of night in his oversized uniform.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“How? Don’t they keep a record of the population?”
“They give our birth permits. That’s not the same as keeping accurate records of the pop,” Peter added.
“Before the GCS’s compulsory population control measures, unpermitted couples were having children and hiding them. Over fifty or so years, the undocumented population grew, having more unpermitted children. Only those sanctioned by the government are given housing. The rest, well, you see,” the escort explained.
“Why don’t they build more housing?” I asked as we rounded a corner onto a main road. A few streets down, I caught another group moving parallel to us.
“They could. But a purge would be a more efficient solution,” Peter said.
We halted momentarily, allowing the adjacent squad to push up and out of sight before we continued. The street’s slope gradually increased, and before long, we were near eye level with many of the taller buildings in the city.
New York didn’t have any terrain like this.
I peered over the edge of the rising wall to our left. Down below, the shadows of this neighborhood crept over an entire swathe of the city, obscuring it from the light above. As we climbed higher, the buildings transitioned from the hologram-painted concrete structures that persisted throughout the lower levels into colonial-styled homes perched over the street with grand Roman pillar entrances. These buildings didn’t emanate the low glow, blurring their edges like those below. They were real. The architecture was deliberate and expertly crafted. The estates grew more lavish, set deeper back with manicured gardens and fountains adorning their entrances. We continued until the mansions became great spires, rising and piercing moonlit clouds wafting through the night sky above.
We walked along the well-groomed streets until we reached an intersection of four looming towers, their bases wrapped in glass, reflecting a symphony of light pollution. Across from us, I saw Constantine and his group moving a large waste bin. He pressed on across the intersection to meet up with us.
“James, take yours and move it across,” Constantine directed the escort. He nodded, putting the full weight of his body behind the metal bin to jump-start it, gliding it across the intersection.
“Alright, Jack, what do you think? Where would be the best place to lay the charges?”
“I mean, it depends on a lot of factors. The location, the shape of the charge. Where the blast needs to be directed,” I stammered, catching myself on every word.
What am I doing here?
“It’s alright, Jack. Let’s say the patrol was coming from that direction, heading up the street toward that tower.”
I noticed the road narrowed as it approached the intersection. Although there weren’t any lines painted, it looked as though lanes on either side suddenly merged into the middle two. It was a choke point.
“Shape the charges. Set them back in the alley a couple of meters on both sides of this street. The blast will be funneled into the road. These high walls will direct the force of the explosives and should help magnify their effects.”
“How do we hide them? Can’t just leave them on the ground,” Peter asked. Constantine looked back at me.
“Hide them in some debris under the bins. When’s trash collected next?”
“It was just collected, so not until later this week. Plus, we’re the ones collecting it.”
“That’s what I would do, then,” I said, trailing off with guilt.
Peter extracted a conical metal tube from the backpack James had passed off and delicately placed it just under the leading edge of our bin. Then, he spread refuse over it, obscuring the charge from a would-be onlooker. Constantine walked to the opposite alley to do the same.
“You’ll want it a little further back,” I noted.
Peter grinned. “That would’ve helped to know five minutes ago.”
Peter finished pushing the charge further into the alley. James, who crossed over after Constantine left, helped with the finishing touches, obscuring the cylinder from view, when both perked up. Something down the street caught their ears.
“The patrol is early,” Peter said.
He leaned out of the alley and looked down the street.
“Shit,” he whispered before waving to his brother. Constantine didn’t notice at first but looked up when Peter kicked our waste bin, echoing a metal clang down the corridor.
“Do we need to leave?” I asked.
“No, we should be fine. Just grab some garbage and look like you’re cleaning up. We’re supposed to be here, after all.”
I hastily grabbed a handful of matted paper and plastic, scattering it across the dull concrete. The cadence of a unified procession of footsteps echoed up the street. I could hear the crack of their heel round up to the ball of their boots as they marched.
“Don’t look in their direction. Jack, why don’t you stand behind the bin? You look ridiculous in those pants.”
I cracked a smile but figured there was some merit in his jest. I placed myself beside the bin, obscuring the lower portion of my body while still showing the top half of the uniform. The marching grew louder until the first guard came into view, followed by at least forty more. They were marching four abreast, so it was difficult to tell precisely. I became so fixated on the guards that I lost sight of Peter until he was on top of me, grabbing the lapels of my blouse and dragging me down the alley. We were at a full sprint before I wrapped my mind around what was happening. Behind us, a splintered crack rang out, followed by a thunderous boom that knocked me to the ground. James picked me up by the back of the shirt and shoved me forward. We set off, running at full clip. Cracks began to break the air. It took a second to figure out, but after the third or fourth zip, I realized they were bullets whizzing over top of us. I had forgotten what it was like to be shot at, but the metal projectiles bursting through the sound barrier produced a fist-clenching fracture of the air that’s hard to forget.
The bullet storm intensified, with rounds riding down walls on either side, ricocheting suddenly when met with an impeding surface. I knew the key was to not be in their path when they did. The alley dragged on. My lungs burned, and I could barely keep pace. My esophagus, still healing from the stasis sleep tubes, flooded with flem and blood.
I began to slow as my quads numbed. The fire once coursing through the muscles drained into my calves. Mercifully, the alley opened into another wide street. Rays of the fresh morning light weaved through the buildings. Peter stopped momentarily, then bolted across the road, taking another corridor identical to the one we just emerged from. Alley after alley, we wove through the upper city until we came to a steep downramp filled with the morning crowds.
“That wasn’t the plan,” James panted as we slowed to a crawl.
“The plan changed apparently,” Peter replied.
I tried to focus on slowing my breathing as we walked. My muscles burned, crying out for oxygen. But no sooner than we lulled into a slow trot, a crack broke above, followed by a gut-turning thud. Looking toward the sound, I watched a man stagger to the ground, spraying brilliant waves of scarlet across the crowd. Then another thud, and another. Soon, the masses began to panic as bodies dropped. Instinctively, I ducked my head and set off, gliding through the hysteria as rounds met the flesh of innocent bystanders. I lost sight of Peter for a moment but regained his trail after dodging a huddled group. A salvo struck them as I passed, ripping the arm off one, sending her spinning like a top before collapsing.
We bobbed and weaved through gathering after gathering until Peter pointed out a metal door recessed into a building to our left. We veered off the street, pushing our way in. I managed to get through before James tripped on my heels and hurtled over me. Peter shut the door, dropping a heavy latch to secure it.
“Jesus, they just fired into the crowd,” I panted.
Peter leveled his eyes with mine, nodding in response. He broke his gaze, looking over into the room’s corner. Like the other safe houses, this one had a shaft leading to a tunnel network. Peter and James took care to set the explosive, then led the way through the shaft.
We emerged from the underground labyrinth, back where we had started earlier that morning. Constantine stood in the center of the room, surrounded by blue and brown blouses. It was difficult to tell between the huddle, but lying on the table, writhing in agony, was one of our own. James raced forward, pushing past the onlookers.
“Mathew, hang in there,” I heard him cry out.
I stepped forward to get a better look. Covered in blood with piping from his lower abdomen spilling out, laid the other escort. He kicked and thrashed, trying to stuff his organs back into the jagged hole under his shirt. Blood pulsed onto the table. What started as a puddle turned into a lake, sopping the soles of everyone’s boots. James held tight until the very last thrash, his body rattling as his eyes became lifeless.
“Into the tunnels. Ready the charges,” Constantine barked out.
“We’re not leaving him,” James belted.
“Stay with him if you like. You’ll suffer a worse death than he did,” Constantine replied.
*****
Black and white aberrations fluttered on the monitor. Claire’s hand squeezed mine, pulsing her grip every time the white lab coat shifted her gelled nozzle. The woman turned her gaze, asking if it was too cold for her. Claire’s eyes softened, releasing a smile that radiated throughout the room. She looked at the screen, her sharp jaw cutting through the air as it depressed into the pillow.
Claire’s pale blue eyes brightened. A glow emanated from her skin, infecting the air around me. I gripped harder. The floating outline displayed was growing faster than I’d ever imagined, and with it, the flame in my chest for the woman lying next to me.
The doctor asked if we wanted to know the gender. Both Claire and I answered simultaneously with different answers. I wanted to know. I always wanted to know. My brain dealt in known quantities while hers thrived in the pleasant obscurity life so often presented. In that way, we were different, and in that way, my love for her and the child she bore only grew. Claire longed deep into my eyes, turning back toward the doctor, explaining she’d changed her mind. She felt my energy. She was in tune with the anxious aura I released.
Girl. It was a girl. A healthy, beautiful baby girl. My self-indulgent wandering through this life ceased with that one-word response.
“Are you Jack?” a shrill voice pierced my daydream.
I sat up from the cold ground, permeating the fog of a projected carpet. Standing over me was a young man, more a boy than a man. He carried himself like an adult, but his voice gave him away.
“I am, it’s nice to meet you—”
“Cassius.”
“Nice to meet you, Cassius.”
“Is it true you led the attack in the heights?”
“No, not at all. I was just there to help.”
His deep brown eyes lit up, flickering the smoldering green hue of the artificial carpet. “I heard you planned it. Showed exactly where and how to place the bombs.”
“I didn’t plan it. I only offered a little advice.”
“I heard you’re here to take down the Capital. To help Constantine and the rest of the PLM break its tyrannical grip.”
“That’s quite the phrase, tyrannical grip. Where did you hear it?”
“It’s what everyone is saying,” Cassius nearly shouted.
“Do you understand what it means?”
“Their oppressive control, and… um…”
“Like everything in life, Cassius, these things are hard to boil down to a phrase like tyrannical grip,” I gently posited.
The boy hovered over me momentarily, contemplating what I just said.
Maybe he does understand.
“Are you going to help blow up the Capital?”
Maybe not.
“I don’t know, Cassius. It’s more complicated than just blowing up buildings.”
The door to my right creaked open. Peter strolled in, not noticing us until he was nearly on top of me. Startled, he flinched. “Jack. What are you doing down there?”
“I was just resting.”
“He isn’t bothering you, is he?” Peter asked, nudging the boy.
“No, not at all. He was just asking about the other night.”
“Well, if he starts to get on your nerves, just let me know. I’ll have him straightened out,” Peter joked, ruffling the thin black tufts of hair falling from Cassius’s head.
“The city can’t stop talking about the attack. Even more than the terminal. The Capital Guard killed almost three hundred people. THREE HUNDRED!”
“That’s awful,” I said.
“The neighborhood is beside itself. The Capital Guard issued a decree of martial law from The Heights to Tower Rounds. They rounding up undocumented for questioning. But no one is seeing them again.”
“And you know this how?” Peter questioned.
“Well, it’s what the others are saying.”
“Mhmm. And should you always believe what you hear?”
“No,” Cassius conceded.
“Still, the death count is rising but it looks like it was around three hundred. Nearly sixty of the Capital Guard, though. And a mid-ranking bureaucrat.”
“I thought it was just supposed to be a small patrol.”
“It was, but apparently, there was a malfunction with the tram system. The administrator who was killed belonged to the agriculture department, and there was some kind of emergency. He had to be rushed in with an escort. We got lucky catching them.”
“I wouldn’t call three hundred dead civilians luck,” I replied. Jesus, he’s actually proud - like three hundred innocent dead is an accomplishment.
“What was it you told Constantine, something about blood and revolutions?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, it’s a start. If what Cassius says is true—”
“It is,” Cassius interjected.
“Then we’ve made more progress in a single night than we’ve made in a year.”
“Lucky you,” I replied.
Peter patted Cassius on the head and led him to the door, turning back one last time to mention, “We’re moving soon. I don’t know when exactly, but be ready for when we do.”