SECTOR 87, ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF MARKABIA
2210 HOURS
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For every force that pushes forward exists a force that pushes back; so true as the night exists to soothe the weight of the day, or that there’s a sun to a moon. Balance measures the difference between those opposites; everything in the universe is like that. That’s a rule.
That’s why when the hegemony of a place is established by a fascist government that dictated their conditions, as a natural law, a force to quarrel with subjugation will be born—as the bustling heat does with the static cold. That’s how wars begin and how sides decide who’s an ally and who’s an enemy.
That happened to the Markabian Imperial Army. The Army had been in complete control of the eastern continental island for centuries, leaving aside a certain peninsula that nobody liked to talk about; and although there had always been commotions here and there, it was only some fifty years ago that the first movement had been brewing that managed to be more than a simple disturbance for the Empire. The disgruntled civilians had started a small revolution.
At first, the way to oppose the regime had been through public manifestations or street art, with signs that had the Army’s coat of arms—a white horse standing on its hind legs, with laurel wreaths at its sides acting like a pair of wings—crossed out with what pretended to be blood; or with the horse redrawn with leafless wings and the corpse of a man thrown under its legs. There was also graffiti with phrases not worthy of a poet, but which made their message very clear: ‘The imperialists eat shit!’, for example, or ‘To hell with those bastards!’ That’s how they caught the pejorative nickname of the Rowdy Ones.
Until then, nothing that already had not happened before in history.
But the movement had planted the seeds of the revolution in many people, and months later, confrontations between rebels and the military had tripled. Once the earlier retaliations were overcome, beyond the injured, the deceased, the missing ones, and the detained, the rebellion had gained adepts; causing even the desertion of many soldiers who ended up joining it, among others who were distanced from the militia’s path.
By then, old ways of protest had been pushed aside, and even when once in a while a new not-so-flattering message dedicated to the Empire would appear on the walls of a building, the rebels had adopted more serious belligerent methods to echo their discontent. The leading group, formed in its majority by former soldiers and armed civilians, broke into the Army’s smaller bases. By assaulting transport trucks on the route, they’ve got themselves some guns, increasing their striking power.
The opposing forces had begun their game; and as it was said before, everything in the universe is a matter of balance. Of course, the balance could favor one side and decline the other; there was no clause guaranteeing both sides would be under the same conditions.
The Rowdy Ones were a pushing force, true; but a small one. It survived because its leaders kept hiding and weaving strategies, as a spider weaves its net. Whereas the Markabian Imperial Army was savagely powerful, and their nets were not those of a spider, but those of a whaling ship.
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Night had fallen, and the drizzle had become rain. The multicolor shining of the neon signs crammed in the street, narrow and full of small shops, one on top of the other, got blurred in the fog and water drops.
Cloaked in a dark raincoat and a hood so large he could barely see his way, Rigel Beta walked through bikers and mopeds, vendors, and passersby who rushed to get cover before the rain turned into a storm. Most of them were using their purses or hoodies over their heads; looking ahead was like seeing a sea of caps and plastic bags that kept shaking.
Turning off the alley, Rigel got into a dark, slender alley behind a fry bread stand, where he was greeted by a strong smell of damp earth and a man dressed in a raincoat just as dark as his own, his face hidden in the shadows. Neither of them was very interested in seeing each other’s faces.
“I’ve been waiting more than an hour,” said the man, clearly upset, but he tried to keep his voice down. “What is it this time?”
Rigel took a folded paper out of his pocket and handed it to him. “This was printed in your studio,” he said. “You’re the only one who works with that type of ink in the area. Next time, think twice before taking the savings of some idealist students.”
The man unfolded the paper; it was a pamphlet.
> If you want the University of Geology to say ENOUGH! to the tyrannical regulations of the Markabian Imperial Army, help us gather signatures! We want a fascist-free University, and we want it NOW!
Indeed, it was one of his prints. Then, he noticed there was something hand-written on the back of it,
> Tomorrow. 2000 hours. Big shipment. Samuel Ville.
The man ripped the paper into shreds and threw them in the gutter for the water to take away.
“Perfect,” he whispered. “I’ll pass the information on to the group. I just hope they would listen to me. With what happened last time, I’m sorry, but some folks doubt your loyalty to the cause.”
“That last time wasn’t my mistake,” he said. “If your group knew what discipline is, they would have known how to coordinate a raid. You must be thankful that my men deleted the recordings before anyone saw them; none of you would have had air in your lungs today to complain about, otherwise.”
“I know, I know.” The man in the dark raincoat tried to pacify the Detective. “It’s just that you know how folks are. You still wear that shield on your chest, and they think that—”
“I do it because I believe in discipline, not because I like the Imperial Council,” Rigel interrupted. “I thought that was clear. When you guys are Rowdy Ones in name only and prove that you’re capable of maintaining social stability, I might consider switching sides. In the meantime, be satisfied with the information I give you or ignore it.”
The man raised his hands in a sign of truce. “Hey, buddy, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he apologized. “Just try to understand the folks. You know what they say, even the disadvantages...”
“Even the disadvantages of the Empire hold their advantages,” Rigel recited, and against all odds, he let out a smile. “I know. My ex-girlfriend… She used to say the same thing.”
“Well, your ex-girlfriend seems like a very wise woman.”
Rigel nodded. “Marie…” he whispered, “yeah, she was.”
Something sounded behind them, and the man in the dark raincoat turned to see what it was about with the speed of someone who lives outside the law and with nerves on edge. The rats that prowled the garbage piled up in that corridor had knocked over an empty can, which was now rolling down the slope on the damp floor.
Catching his breath, the man returned his gaze back to the front to find Rigel already far away, among the crowd that was going down the alley, seeking shelter from the rain.