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Colonel Michael Parry arrived back in the city with the military convoy and wasted no time in picking up his own jeep at the garrison for the drive to his office. The return journey from the Warren had been another six hour nightmare on potholed forest roads and war-damaged bridges––and he was thankful to no longer have someone else’s testosterone-induced driving habits inflicted on him. He left the vehicle in its private parking spot, stretching long legs in relief as he got out.
In his late forties, he was still lean and fit, a bit of grey at the temples, a few lines around the eyes––and already he wanted to get back into the action again instead of returning to a desk. Partway to the entrance of the security building he stopped in the open space outside the reinforced glass doors, wondering why the place suddenly felt different.
It’s not the place. It’s you. You’re really seeing it for what it is, instead of letting habit take over.
It was an uneasy feeling. The building itself was state of the art, four concrete and steel blocks fifteen floors high that surrounded and protected the Avarit tower in the middle of the square. Steel and glass corridors linked the structures at ground level while others served as fire escapes on the fifteenth. Four sections; domestic police, homeland security, military, and private security, all in service to the tiny Avarit elite that owned both government and commerce. Four public faces for what was essentially one military force that existed only to serve its owners.
Don’t think about it. We have stability. Everyone who remembers the resource wars knows how essential that is.
It was a message repeated to those like himself, born after the peace treaties were finally adhered to almost fifty years before, when there was precious little left to fight over anyhow.
Except now when the thought came to his mind he could see the contempt in Fin’s eyes in that brief time she had been his prisoner. A reminder that she would probably have fought in those wars yet still rejected his current version of stability.
Few people questioned the past too openly. Avarit media always hyped the ongoing guerrilla war in what used to be north and south America, where widespread ownership of heavy weapons had so far thwarted the syndicate’s attempts to impose martial law. The message was clear.
Be grateful for the control and security we have on this side of the ocean.
No doubt on the other side of the ocean, Avarit media would be telling its citizens a different story, but with international communications limited to the controlling Avarit top brass, anyone further down the hierarchy could only guess.
Parry had already suffered enough career setbacks from his questioning of the repressive price citizens over here paid for their security. In any case, with tensions reaching breaking point, any level of control could not last for much longer.
You can’t stand out here all day. Get on with it.
He walked to his office and sent a memo requesting a copy of Burton’s report regarding their attack on the Warren. The space the memo left behind felt like the brittle quiet in a battle, waiting for the returning hail of bullets. Parry sat unmoving in the ensuing silence for a moment, then took out the unregistered handset Raine had given him and stared at it for a long moment before laying it carefully on his desk.
Next to the photo of Jess.
I haven’t agreed to use the thing. So why do I still have it?
He shoved it back in his pocket. The chance of it being the key to defusing the unrest in the city seemed far more remote now than it had on a moonlit hillside above the Warren. The euphoria of being set free from Resistance captivity and discovering that he was not going to die just yet had faded into the grim reality of his current position in the Avarit military.
All that remained now was a faint hope that Raine might be able to track down where Jess was hiding. If in fact she was still alive––
His tablet pinged and he looked at it in surprise. Burton’s report had, contrary to usual practice, arrived by return mail.
When Parry scanned through it, he could see why.
So that’s what he was so busy writing back at the Warren. The short, cleaned up, elaborated, falsified version of events.
It was hard to know whether to feel angry or laugh out loud. According to the report a large group of insurgents had launched a fierce attack on Burton’s troops by the river bridge below the Warren. This had accounted for the security forces’ casualties, but they had retaliated by launching phos-grenades into the forest and had inflicted far greater losses on the other side.
The attached file contained an appended list of recommendations for promotions and medals. The usual strategy Burton employed to ensure his subordinates went along with his fabrications. That and a few threats if anyone dared speak out.
Parry gave a huff of exasperation.
Doesn’t anyone examine the real evidence these days? What if I send my own report based on the fact that I was actually in that meadow while this fantasy was supposed to be happening?
He reflected that until yesterday he would probably have done exactly that and to hell with Burton’s threats. Now there seemed no point in stirring up controversy to reveal truths that no one in the administration wanted to hear. He had become far more interested in the additional fantasies Burton was cooking up over those retrieved plans for the new base in the east marshes the rangers were supposed to be setting up.
Parry was sure those abandoned files Burton was hyping were simply a Resistance false-trail. Even though he had only met Raine briefly, he felt convinced that the outlawed ranger commander was far too smart to leave valuable intel lying around for idiots like Burton to find.
Yes. Raine wanted it found. Deciphered. Acted on.
He keyed a brief reply to Burton.
“Read your initial report with interest. Would you prefer me to write my own report, or should we collaborate on a final version? Please advise by return.”
Maybe now I’ll discover what insane blunder you’re planning next. Maybe I’ll finally gather enough evidence to get rid of you for good.
*
Burton watched through narrowed eyes as Ted Rankin walked nervously into his spacious office. Rankin’s file had been open on his tablet since the corporal had contacted him and asked to meet. The sparse military record described a junior auxiliary pilot who had never pushed himself forward as high-intellect material for promotion. Burton could not think of any real use he might have for someone with such a mediocre background.
The young city-guard was obviously not used to his reports causing such an instant reaction, let alone getting him summoned to explain himself before he had even managed to eat breakfast. Burton instantly dispensed with protocol, waving a pudgy hand at the chair to the side of his desk.
“Come in. Sit down.”
That should confuse him enough to throw him off his guard.
It did. Ted sat down awkwardly, unsure if he should speak first or wait to be questioned. “I... um, those details you wanted. About meeting Lucas Tyrel last night. Sir.”
“Yes? Go on.”
“He said he was working undercover, waiting to meet a contact. We hadn’t been advised he would be there but we moved away to let him get on with it. I hope I did the right thing.”
“What time was this?”
“About eight-thirty. Sir.”
Burton frowned, trying to work out where in his recorded tracker log this had occurred.
Ten minutes before his signal disappeared––and before I could get the hit squad in position. It takes too much damn time to triangulate an accurate fix once the tracker comes in range. Next time he contacts, I’ll be able to set a better trap for those confounded outlaws he’s with...
“You did a good job there, corporal. If you see him again report direct to me. Only to me. Understood?”
“Understood. Sir.”
Burton suddenly turned away, ignoring him.
Still confused, Ted scrambled to his feet and headed for the door.