The sirocco winds tousled the brown hair of the adventurer, who was carefully driving along the shambles of the old Union highway system on his motorcycle. The Auhiya Desert sands stretched out in all directions before him, with only the cool winds off the Misseppa Sea keeping him from burning in the noonday sun. The fumes of the petrochemical factories of Klefelin were barely kept away by that lovely wind, and would continue to defend his nostrils until he was beyond Petisverg, where the steel mills' noxious odors would proceed to virtually choke him. And then from Petisverg, which was the easternmost city in the Jacago League, he would proceed across the border to the Mirilenian Imperium to its capital city of Bellamarha to find work. Ah, Bellamarha, easily the greatest city of all Emeriqua, he was to call house for a while. Not home, because he was the sort who had no home, no realm or polis to cling to as the ultimate potentate of his patriotic fervor. Indeed, the only government that he had ever truly respected was the ancient Union of Emeriqua, born and slain in the flames of revolution. But alas, the Union had been dead two thousand years and lived only a vegetable's existence as a vehicle for despots' imperialist pretentions. The adventurer pondered all this as he drove.
* * *
True to his imaginings, Petisverg was a smelly, foul town full of soot and dirty air. A sense of foreboding lay in the deserted hilly wastelands around the city, and the sickening hovels of the city, loathsome and disgusting as they were, at least promised a respite from the silent, malevolent barrens.
Driving through the maze that was the Union highway near Petisverg, he managed to get near the downtown section. A wire fence blockaded his path, though, with the only gate occupied by soldiers in the dull brown uniforms of the Jacago League. Must be a checkpoint.
"This town is under protective occupation by the League," rattled off a rifled guard who obviously was sick of giving the same exact spiel to every single traveler going in and out. His companion, a similarly-dressed soldier leaning against the fence, rolled his eyes. "We must ascertain that you are not a threat to the Jacago League. Allow us to search your belongings, and tell us your name."
"Very well," the adventurer agreed, seeing that he had no choice. "Kythe Merlowe. Everything I own is in my backpack. Here." Kythe handed over the backpack to the guard.
The guard searched it, while the other guard looked over a list of names on a clipboard.
"Sir, you do know you have a wristwatch in here?" asked the first guard roughly.
"I know. That wasn't a crime last time I heard. Is it a crime in Petisverg?"
"Effective immediately," declared the first guard, smiling, "All wristwatches are to be confiscated as they could potentially be some sort of weapon." He snapped Kythe's silver watch to his arm, and waved him along as he handed the backpack to him.
"Of course, sir. My mistake," agreed Kythe as he walked his motorcycle along, head down in submission. Just as the guard was basking in his new watch, he felt something large and hard hit him in the back of his head. Before he slipped into unconsciousness, he vaguely saw Kythe, metal pipe in hand, take his watch back and the other guard roll his eyes again. Apparently that was all the other guard did all day.
"What an idiot," mumbled Kythe as he hopped on his motorcycle and drove to the nearest pub.
* * *
Downtown Petisverg was the festering sore of the Jacago League. Right next to the front lines with Mirilen, their one concern was to win a war, not clean up an occupied city.
The city was shut in by the skyscrapers that towered over everyone's heads. In between them, even on the streets (especially on the streets) were tenements and shantytowns and beggars warming themselves on trashcan fires. A guard stood on every corner, rifle in hand, to ensure that nobody opposed the iron will of Jacago. Abandoned cars were all hauled to the marketplaces, inconveniently located on the bridges where the tollman taxed your travel on both sides. The rusty millenia-old cars were completely useless for their intended function, but in many of them the cigarette lighters still worked and these were used to power outdoor grills and neon signs and other various and sundry electronics. There was only one car factory in Emeriqua (Kreisler-Dodj in Datroyte) but there were something like twenty car battery factories.
Petisverg was a recent addition to the Jacago League, so recent that the old blue banner of the State of Pansolvina still hung on some flagpoles. Pansolvina, a free republic dating all the way back from the fall of the Union, had been attacked by the resurgent Mirilenian Imperium right after the fall of Dystroch Columilis. After the fall of the Pansolvinan capital at Harrisverg, the State had asked for military aid from Daley XVII, President of Jacago. When Falatylfya fell to the Imperium, Daley strongarmed the State into joining the League and essentially turned into a Jacagoan puppet.
Kythe parked and hopped off of his vehicle. He walked into a bar that was filled with all assorted dregs of the human race. The smell of beer, urine and Jamaykan Redhare permeated the drinking establishment. In one corner a brawl had broken out, in another long-haired gamblers passed roaches, dice and money back and forth, and by the bar there were women of every age soliciting secretive business from the patrons.
Kythe pulled up a seat at the bar.
"What'll it be?" the barkeep asked.
"Scotch, straight. Make it a double," Kythe ordered. While the drink came up Kythe's eyes wandered to the guy next to him. A tough-looking man in a bomber jacket with a young face was drinking soda.
"Rum and coke?" asked Kythe. "Never could stand the stuff myself."
"No, it's just straight coke," the pilot replied. "I got no reason to be drunk. Tell me, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a mercenary," Kythe answered. "I'd slit my momma's throat for a nickel."
"Pure and utter bull," reasoned the pilot. "Nobody's that cold. So how's your life? Must suck if you gotta blow your brains out with that hard crap. Or are you just trying to impress me?"
"Go burn," Kythe cursed.
"I feel so loved," the pilot remarked. "You know, if it's for the chicks, they're for sale. They don't care what you drink so long as you pay them afterwards."
"I happen to like the taste," Kythe defended. "The burning sensation in my throat."
"As opposed to the slitting sensation in your mother's?"
"What's your name, pilot?" demanded Kythe. "I wanna know what grave to spit on when they bury you."
"I am Brenton Veneratis, jack-of-all-trades. You might not have heard of me."
"Oh really? Why not?"
"Well, for one thing, you've got your head buried so deep in the sand that you probably can't hear much. Second, I'm not that famous. Yet."
"Yeah, and I'm the crown President of the Dystroch. All I can say is you're lucky I had to check my Deutsches in with the bouncers."
"Well, I'll see ya," Brent saluted sardonically, getting up. He walked out of the bar. The barkeep took his plate away a second later, revealing an envelope underneath.
Kythe considered this. Here was mail or something that Brent had apparently forgotten. He bore Brent too much ill will to track him down and return his mail to him, so he picked it up.
It read on the envelope:
To be delivered to Johnny Snow
Cell Lead Sec7Under, Imp. Resist.
Bellamarha MD
Kythe turned the envelope over, mulling over whether to open it or not. He read the address again. He figured that Imp. Resist. stood for the Imperial Resistance, an underground faction that opposed the neofascist policies of the Mirilenian Imperium. If he opened this letter, the addressee would never believe a word of it and would probably shoot the messenger.
Kythe couldn't get revenge on Brent, as he was probably far out of the city by now. But he could see to it that an unfortunate 'accident' happened to a friend of Brent's that also happened to be a prominent dissident ringleader. He tucked the unopened envelope into his pocket.
He smelled revenge and a bounty, and walked out of the bar after plunking a few pennies down on the bar. The age-old faces of Linkyn stared silently at the barkeeper as he collected the glass.
* * *
After a relatively uneventful border crossing, Kythe was in the Mirilenian Imperium. A relatively new realm, it had come to being when the King of Bellamarha had been overthrown by Byrnoc Haymis, the leader of the Mirilen Imperial Party. He had taken the Bellamarhan Kingdom and attacked in all directions, creating an empire that stretched from Nayarque City in the north to Telanta in the south, and west all the way to Sinsnati. Even the once-mighty Presidency of Dystroch Columilis, twenty miles south of Bellamarha, had fallen to the Imperium; and Byrnoc, in a demonstration of ego, had the Bishop of the Dystroch crown him President. Byrnoc planned to move the capital of the Imperium to the Dystroch eventually, people said; but for now it remained in Bellamarha due to the Dystroch Underground.
Kythe had never before seen Bellamarha, because until yesterday he had always lived west of the Misseppa. So it was with great anticipation that he fixed his eyes on the horizon, hoping for a glimpse at the seat of the mightiest country in Emeriqua.
Bellamarha was huge. Bigger even than Jacago or Langelis or Aumaja, it stretched out in all directions. Right on the Kessepica Bay, it was a mass of old skyscrapers from the days of the Union. Outside of that archaic district was the new city, a tangled, beautiful mass of stone and brick buildings with winding streets and many people. The distinguishing characteristic of Bellamarha, though, was the Undercity. Tunneled out by overcrowded citizens led by a rich visionary, it was a packed, but structurally sound, slum district of Bellamarha that actually stretched to the nearby city of Linthikin. At the edge of the city, the Undercity was exposed to the open air in such a manner that it looked like Bellamarha was sitting on a platform. The Undercity sprawled farther than the rest of Bellamarha, even past the city walls.
Kythe saw a routine checkpoint, and waited in the long line of traffic for the right to be admitted to the city. Half an hour later, he sped along. The first thing he noticed upon entering the city was that flags were everywhere, it seemed. One for the Imperium, one for the ancient Union, and one for the city. The Imperial flag was black, red, white and yellow; the Union flag was blue, white and red; and the city flag was based on an ancient symbol of the city: A black-and-orange bird on a field of white.
He took out the letter. The address only said Sec7Under, which he took to mean Sector 7 in the Undercity. In the Overcity, Sector 7 was part of the ancient pre-Idealist Bellamarha. Orialfelt was there (an ancient stadium now used for government rallies and baseball) as well as Syenett Stadium, which was in partial ruins. The Inner Harbor's main plazas, where festivals and such were held, was in Sector 7.
The Undercity's Sector 7, though, was not a shining section of Bellamarha. Like the rest of the Undercity, it was just one huge slum. Kythe drove his motorcycle to the corner of Clark Street and Imperial Boulevard, and the salty smell of the sea pervaded his nostrils. This was the shiny beautiful face of Bellamarha that made it to the postcards. Vendors served up hot dogs and cheesesteaks and especially seafood. The sound of an ocarina band, probably from the Incan Imperium, played strange yet lovely music that wafted across several blocks of the city.
This is probably what it was like back in the days of the Union, imagined Kythe as he watched a seagull fly overhead. It perched on a nearby flagpole, where the flag of the Mirilenian Imperium flew above the ancient flag of the Union.
Even mercenaries apparently had appreciation for a fine view, for Kythe just stood in his motorcycle by the busy street corner for a moment, absorbing it all and breathing in the fresh scented air.
Then he drove into the Undercity checkpoint. It was a building that looked like it had once been a parking garage. The garage had collapsed in some places, but a new pathway existed: It went down. A checkpoint existed, really it was nothing more than a paytoll: not too much, but enought to ensure that the Undercity rabble couldn't spoil the pretty view of the Overcity too often with their presence.
But Kythe didn't really care about that. He paid the toll and drove down. His first view of the Undercity shocked even him.
One of the pillars that held up the Overcity was right below the garage. A roadway, two lanes wide, circled it around, slowly spiraling downwards. But after that there weren't really roads. Of course, there weren't really buildings either.
The whole place looked like one big garbage dump. It sort of smelled like one, too. Scraps of metal, cardboard boxes, and old cloth served to make most of the habitations. Some of the metal was old and rusty, some probably old enough to come from before the time of the Idealists. Kythe saw the half-rusted words 'Ame i an A rl nes' on a half-tube that had probably been an airliner. A ruined billboard with a hamburger pasted on it was propped up by two wooden telephone poles and used as a home. Bums warmed themselves on fires built in used Caribbean oil barrels. Trailer homes, popular before Idealism two millennia ago, were still being used, and half of them were highly broken. The smell of death, decay and drink was overpowering.
Kythe drove along the dirty, sun-deprived masses, looking for a bar. Obviously, the headquarters of the Resistance wouldn't have signs out in front saying so. The only way to find one's way to upper management would be by enriching bartenders.
A piece of broken plywood had the word 'Beer' scrawled on it with paint. It was above a makeshift hut, constructed with scraps of corrugated metal and more plywood. At the entrance was an advertisement for the Imperial Army and another inviting the guests to try 'Fyrmeade Moonshine'.
The bar was even more squalid than the one in Petisverg had been. The smells of cheap beer and chronic skunkweed could be cut with a knife. Kythe got a mild high just being in there.
"Gimme some o' that Fyrmeade stuff," Kythe demanded. The barkeeper, a fat, pinkish-looking man, nodded and put a glass under tap.
"Oh, and barkeep, I want to order something else," Kythe informed quietly as the man approached with the moonshine. Kythe motioned him closer. "You ever hear about a Johnny Snow?"
"I might've," the barkeep let on. "I might not've. It depends on who's asking, how deep his pockets are, and what he wants to know."
"A dollar for Snow's address," Kythe offered.
"I dunno." When Kythe glared at him and began to get up, he added, "Honestly! I don't know!"
"Okay then, how about fifty cents for where I can meet him," Kythe countered.
"Now why exactly do you want to know?" inquired the barkeep.
"I have a letter from a pilot that he knows. Johnny might be interested."
"Is it open?"
"No."
"Then I can guarantee to you that Johnny Snow will be here tomorrow at six o' clock in the evening. I won't point Johnny out to you, you gotta find Snow for yourself. If Snow finds out I told you, I'll be shot. Vuh-Viva Imperium."
Kythe dropped two quarters into the pink barkeep's sweaty palm.
* * *
When Kythe left, the Undercity was much colder. The fires were still burning in the PetroCarib barrels, and it was still just as smelly. But the bright lights in the Undercity ceiling were dimmed. He was still feeling a little woozy from the bar fumes, but he shook it off with the resolve that he had developed as a mercenary. He passed brothels and bars and slum dwellings, open drug markets (you could deal drugs in the Undercity, but only if you had a license) and groceries, and finally he arrived at an inn. Kythe checked in, paid for a room, and went to sleep.
He was disturbed by a thief entering by his window, but he quickly dispatched with the burglar by knocking him out cold with the barrel of one of his Deutsches and throwing him out of the window. Then he went back to sleep, cradling his gun with one eye open.
* * *
The stale air of the Undercity woke him, as well as a slit of sunlight as the sun climbed, eager to be blocked out by the Overcity. Kythe woke, splashed some water on his face and shaved. Then he got dressed and stepped outside, to track down a bite to eat.
There were no trendy little cafes in the Undercity. The only diners were really glorified pubs with bad service and worse food. It was to one of these places, which operated out of a circle of trailers with a cloth draped over the middle dining area, that Kythe went to for breakfast.
As he gave his order to the waitress, something familiar caught his eye. He tried pinning it down, and finally realized that there was a patch on a nearby man's jacket that was identical to a patch on Brenton's jacket. It was a shield with blue on top, and thirteen white stars in it. Beneath the blue field were seven red stripes and six white ones. Lettering in ancient Angol was under the badge, but it was all Greek to Kythe.
The man was sitting at the bar, two stools down from him. There was nobody between them, so Kythe scooted over a seat.
"Hey, where did you get that patch?" asked Kythe, as politely as he knew how. (Which, for a mercenary, wasn't that polite.)
"I got it from Lindberg," the man replied.
"Who is Lindberg?" continued Kythe, puzzled.
"The leader of the Society. Have you heard of the Society?" the man asked in reply.
"Society? You mean Resistance?"
"We're gonna win the war, I guarantee it," informed the man, not quite answering Kythe's question.
"What, the war with Jacago?" asked Kythe.
"The war with all Emeriqua. It's all going down, and we're getting stronger. We have contacts from Sakram Anto to Nayarque."
"What's going down?" Kythe was absolutely befuddled now. Either this guy was some self-important blowhard, or he was in on a huge conspiracy that Kythe had never even heard about.
"You'll see, in the matter of a few weeks when it happens."
"When what happens?"
"Can't tell you. On a different note, have you ever heard of a guy named Lennin?"
"Which one, the leader of the Sophiate Union, or the rock star?"
"The rock star. He made a song, two thousand years ago, called 'Imagine'. Rapturous Ode just did a gothic remake of it. You can hear it on Dystroch Free Radio sometimes. The Imperium won't play it because it doesn't line up with their propaganda."
"I think I've heard it. It's all right," replied Kythe. "But what does that have to do with anything?"
"Absolutely nothing. Nothing whatsoever. I just like it."
"Look, I'm gonna ask this once. Do you know a guy named Johnny Snow?"
"Yes. Swing by a local bar at six o' clock tonight. Snow will be there."
"Which bar?"
"The one that sells Fyrmeade Moonshine."
"Ah."
"Oh, and you know the code."
"The code?"
The man looked at Kythe, sizing him up, trying to tell whether or not he was trustworthy.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
"I'm an wandering mercenary, and I found a note addressed to Johnny Snow. I am delivering it."
"Very well." The man nodded. "Liberty or death.
"Oh yeah, and Viva Imperium," he added sardonically.
* * *
The Undercity was filled with noise. Byrnoc Haymis, the leader of the Mirilenian Imperium and the crowned President of Dystroch Columilis, was going to make a speech at three o' clock. He was going to speak about the recent revolts in the states of Jaujia and Sacaralyna, and the public address systems were activated. If you were in Bellamarha, you were going to hear the speech.
It was five minutes beforehand, and the sounds of mindless Mirilenian patriotic pop filled the radio waves. The PA systems were on. And as Kythe walked down the muddy lanes of the Undercity (he had locked up his motorcycle back at the inn) he felt an inner sense of disgust form towards the Imperium.
He had seen the worst of humanity. Not just in Emeriqua, but overseas in Iorephe. He had served in the Queen's Foreign Legion during the siege of Lontyn. He had singlehandedly sabotaged the Rhuskan uranium processing plant in Mauskau. He had commanded a tank regiment in the Northumbrian War. And he had seen the only thing that had haunted his soul over in Iorephe.
After Idealism, the United Kyngtym of Angleterre, Scauterre and Cymryterre had split apart after the Scauts declared independence. After a thousand years of warfare between the Angols and Scauts, peace was finally realized. But, when thirty years ago a resurgent Rhuska was seeking to conquer Iorephe, Angleterre leapt to oppose them. So the Rhuskans allied with the Eireanns and the Scauts to destroy the Kyngtym of Angleterre. The result was that all three nations were devastated. But all that had been simple imperialism at work, and history besides.
When Kythe came to Angleterre, he joined up to fight the madman, Macsordoc Severian, who had led a military coup in Eire. Macsordoc himself wasn't even Eireann; nobody knew where he had come from and nobody would venture to guess save to guess that he ventured out of the gates of hell itself. Regardless of his upbringing, he had usurped the power of the Eireann Seanad and then sought to conquer the rest of the Albeann Isles.
The rat had nuked Lontyn.
Where he had gotten the warhead was besides the point.
Kythe had been leading a commando squad in a raid on Eireann-held Kanterburi when he had heard. When he had heard that the royal family had all died, that Wesminst was all ashes, that the river Tymh ran red to the Channel. When he had heard that his beloved Chloe was dead. Chloe, the only other human being he had opened up to, her life snuffed out in a fit of Macsordoc's greed and cruelty.
Other than Chloe, he hadn't been too attatched to Angleterre. It was just another land, another paycheck to him. But that all changed when he saw the horrid destruction of Lontyn on the news.
Macsordoc had planned the whole thing for the media. First, he had sent fifty-three Aer Dun bombers above Lontyn, knowing that such a huge force would attract the media worldwide. Then he sent the missile, which the entire world saw ignite in thermonuclear fury live. He did it so that nobody would question his power and ruthlessness. In more civilized times, the world might have united against him. But Idealism had come and gone, and the nations' politicians used the Geneva Conventions to wipe their noses. So the oldest continuous government in the world (unless you counted the Emeriquans, who claimed that the Presidency of Dystroch Columilis embodied the ancient Union, which it didn't) was destroyed, along with millions of lives. And Chloe.
The puppet government was even worse. Kythe went immediately into hiding after the Prime Minister, Sir Edmin Blacketter, surrendered. A hideous excuse for government, one that managed to revolt even Kythe, popped up. After selling his services to the Lifyrpouil Resistance, he discovered that Macsordoc was using Angleterre as an experiment to see how far he could subdue and oppress a nation. He was trying to see how much he could brutalize a people for his own aggrandizement, how well he could craft a government that could stay in power forever.
Kythe had read about it failing as he had secretly boarded a Scaut smuggling vessel bound for Halfax. But it was an incomplete failure: Macsordoc's government threw out its leader because he had gotten in the way of the pursuit to power. Ever since then, the monster Macsordoc Severian laid low, hiring himself out as a mercenary much as Kythe did.
And Kythe had spent his entire life searching for Macsordoc, and getting ready to face him: in battle, with a large regiment of well-trained soldiers under his command. This would require a vast amount of money and expertise, for Macsordoc was possibly the most brilliant tactician of the day. But through mercenary jobs and such, he would get the finances.
He also had resolved to kill the rebellious brainchild of Macsordoc, namely the Second Republic of Angleterre. He would free those miserable souls, not because he cared about them, but because of a mixture of his hatred of anything Macsordoc ever created and a veneration of the memory of his Chloe.
But the attitudes and operations of the Mirilenian Imperium were reminding him an awful lot of the Second Republic. And so he wrestled with his motives: was he combating the body of Macsordoc, or the spirit as well? Was he only out to hurt and destroy everything Macsordoc Severian ever built, or was he out to destroy everything like it, too? Macsordoc was evil and to be destroyed. But was he to be destroyed because he was evil, or because he was Macsordoc?
And if the former was the case, that himself, Kythe, was fighting not just Macsordoc but everything like him, then would his own participation in the oppression of Mirilen be a betrayal of everything he held as good? For everything he held as good was his Chloe. He would betray her if he aided those that killed her. But was it Macsordoc or just plain evil that burnt her to ashes?
He remembered a tract he had once read, one that talked about two fundamental forces in the universe. One was God, the other Satan. He wasn't sure if he believed in either as actual people with personalities and so forth, but he did believe in good and evil. He had seen undeniable evil firsthand in Macsordoc, so now he was fighting it. If he was fighting evil, did that make him good by default? Was he a good person?
Of course, not even the most vile person considers themselves evil, mused Kythe. Hytler thought up excuses for his genocide. The Idealists murdered cities at a time in the name of freedom. It would take someone who had buried their conscience long ago to admit that they were basically raping and pillaging and murdering for their own selfish interests.
But there would be a reason to expose the Resistance cell in Bellamarha. President Haymis would reward him with a huge pile of cash, and possibly even use him for further undercover operations in which he could accumulate more money. And all that money could be thrown against Macsordoc and the Second Republic.
Did two wrongs make a right? Or was he just as bad as Macsordoc, only in a different light? Was he laying down reasons, or making excuses? Was his fight against Macsordoc, or the evil that Macsordoc partook in?
The two paths that his life could take were scheduled to diverge at six o' clock that night.
* * *
The bar was packed. People were lined up on all sides, trying to get in. Kythe wormed his way to the front with mean looks and the muzzles of his Deutsches. Fortunately, the bar was too swamped to worry about arms control. He kept his eye out for anyone who might look like a Resistance leader.
"Hey barkeep, what are all these people doing here!?" demanded Kythe.
"Didn't you hear?" he replied. "The lovely Thirea Nellis sings here at six tonight!"
Wonderful, thought Kythe bitterly. Snow's here for the concert. I'll never find him with this many people.
Kythe saw a drunk guy on a bar stool near the 'stage' (two old beer crates) start to pass out. Kythe told him that he left his car's lights on. The drunk, too blitzed to realize that he didn't own a car, went to leave. Kythe chuckled and took the stool. He then ordered a water, being thirsty and wanting his wits about him.
"Hello, my friends," Thirea opened, with a rare microphone in her hand. Kythe gave her the once-over, and then decided she merited a twice-over. Thirea Nellis was a ravishing jewel in the rank Undercity. She was a slim white brunette with strange Oriental-looking tattoos on her back, and dark green eyeshadow and black lipstick. She wore a shimmering gray dress that went down to her knees. Kythe wasn't one for womanizing (not after Chloe, anyway) but he strongly was considering talking to Thirea after this.
But first he had to track down Snow.
But what would he do? Would he capture him and turn him into the Imperium? Or would he deliver his message and let that be that?
He didn't know yet.
"My first song is something I heard on the Dystroch Free Radio a long time ago. It was written by a pre-Idealist rock band calling themselves Freedom Fighters Fantastic. So here is my first song: 'Weary'."
She put her luscious black lips to the microphone, and started singing. Her voice was rich, voluminous, sweet and melancholy all at once. She reached into the depths of her soul and brought forth a stark yet beautiful song. The hard, calloused hearts of the audience seemed to melt under the penetrating emotion. Tough-looking bikers and drugged-out neohippies alike cried at the bittersweet melody. Kythe would have cracked a joke at their expense were not his eyes misting over as well.
The song ended. Everyone who was sitting stood up. Whistles and hoots and hollers sounded throughout the bar. Kythe thought about his objective again.
Find Snow.
"I have picked my next song for a very special man out there," Thirea declared, giving a devil-may-care grin. Kythe sat back, figuring she probably had a lover already.
Somebody shouted, "Yeah, baby!"
"You know who you are." And then she bent down to plug in a keyboard. She fumbled with it for a second, getting the equipment to work. She pressed a key, to make sure it was on. Then she began to sing.
"Imagine there's no heaven,
It's easy if you try,
No hell below us,
Above us only sky-" the crowd shouted approval for this, being that the sky was blocked out by the rich Overcity. The analogy of heaven, hell and Bellamarha was not lost on anyone.
"-Imagine all the people,
Living for today..." Kythe mused at the song. It seemed familiar in some way. He had heard it before. The drink he ordered, the water, had arrived.
It had a lemon in it.
Lemon...
Lemon...
Lennin! That's where I heard this song! he thought.
"Imagine there's no countries,
It isn't hard to do,
Nothing to kill or die for,
No religion too,
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace-..."
Kythe was now putting the pieces together.
"This chorus is for the special man!" she shouted uncharacteristically.
He was that special man.
"You may say that I'm a dreamer,
But I'm not the only one,
I hope some day you'll join us
And the world will live as one."
The rest of the Snow show was magnificent. The rest of the songs were beautiful.
Who woulda thought Johnny Snow was a girl? wondered Kythe as he ventured towards the stage after the show. She was packing up the keyboard and the microphone. He started to help.
"Liberty or death. We need to talk," Kythe informed her.
"Oh really?" she inquired. "About what?"
"A gift of God, a gift of winter, and a gift of the skies," he told her.
"A gift of God?"
"Yo natan in the original Hebrew. Corrupted into Johnathan and further into, well, Johnny. I think you can guess at the gift of winter."
"Do you have the gift of the skies?" she demanded.
"Yes. It's in my pocket. But I wanna know more about this."
"I figured you would. Come home with me after the show. Pretend we're lovers, though: the IIA watches my activities and they'd be suspicious. Better them think I'm a hooker than a rebel. At least hooking's legal in this cursed Imperium."
"IIA?"
"Imperial Intelligence Agency. They're real trouble sometimes. I take it you're an outlander, then?"
"I was born in Aumaja and I don't belong anywhere. Well, hell maybe."
"Definitely. But then, don't we all?"
"Yes, I suppose we do. But then what's the purpose of heaven?"
"Some people escape."
"Ah."
* * *
Kythe left the bar with Thirea on his arm. She was smiling and laughing as they got on his motorcycle. Men around them were staring in envy: most of them wanted to switch places with Kythe. If they only knew what was coming up, though, they would be pitying him instead.
"So where are we headed?" he asked.
"See that structural pole over there, the one with the flickering lightpanel?" she pointed out. "Head toward that and I'll tell you when we get there."
"That's the problem with no actual streets," Kythe noted. "Turns giving directions into a real bugger."
"They built this whole place to screw over the poor," she said. "Keep them down and oppressed, maybe even turn a buck on them. Down with Haymis."
"Haymis couldn't have built this place in the ten years he's been in power," Kythe observed.
"No. It all started back when Bellamarha was a kingdom unto itself, about a hundred years ago. Overcrowding was rampant, so this huge elaborate plan was developed to tunnel out beneath Bellamarha and turn it into a really advanced city. It was gonna be the pride of all Emeriqua, something comparable to the moon landing. It was gonna bring glory to the fallen Union.
"They finished tunneling three years before the Haymis coup, and they had only started construction of the actual city in Sector One. But when Haymis took over, he saw it as prime real estate for the pariahs that had helped put him in power. He gave away all this land free to the poor of Bellamarha. It was a huge deal in the press. How wise he was, how beneficient to the poor. This land gift overshadowed his excessive new taxes on the sale of building materials. So the poor couldn't find anything to build with, and they scavenged the dumps. The result is the Undercity you see today. And to make sure that they would stay loyal, Haymis started licensing all the drug dealers. The Undercity's too stoned to revolt."
"Disgusting," commented Kythe. "When I was in Angleterre, they were thinking about doing the same thing with Lontyn once they clean up the radiation. Just turn it into one big, controllable poorhouse. It sickens me to think of it."
A loud sound started echoing. It was faint at first, but it grew louder and louder as time progressed. Finally, the sound of a helicopter's rotors could be distinguished.
"Put your head down," Thirea instructed hurriedly. "Don't let them see your face."
"Too late."
Two men stepped out from behind a corner, both of them wearing dark suits. One was a big, blond guy, and the other was a thin, black-haired man with three days' stubble. Both were wearing dark sunglasses and pointing guns at them.
"Dismount from your vehicle," the blond man commanded while the thin one talked into a cellphone.
"-Yes, do you have a lock on our position? They're right by us. I want you to stand by in case of surprises," the thin one instructed into the cellphone. "Be ready to take us up." He pressed the OFF button on his cell.
"And who might you be?" inquired Kythe, sounding genuinely puzzled.
"Imperial Intelligence Agency," the big one answered.
"We ask the questions, not them, you moron," rebuked the thin one. "Just let me do the talking, Amadeu. Like we agreed."
"Sure thing, Trino," replied Amadeu sulkingly.
"Now, then. We're here to take Madame Nellis into custody. Your name, sir?"
"I'm Kythe Merlowe, and I'm afraid I can't let you do that," he replied civilly.
"Kythe, don't make me kill you. Smoke?" offered Trino, offering a cigarette. Kythe took it and lit it.
"While I appreciate your lovely gift of tobacco, kind sir, I fear that my previous statement still stands," Kythe said, thinking to himself, Is this the most civil little civil disturbance ever, or what?
Trino stepped forward, lighting a cigarette for his own. Kythe and he stood there for a moment, puffing cigarettes. Trino looked down at the dirt, and looked back up again, straight at Thirea.
"You have inspired loyalty, so I see. We are not going to kill you or your friend, I assure you. Other agents aren't so kind or honorable as I am, see. Isn't that right, Amadeu?"
"You're the absolute soul of chivalry, chief," chimed in Amadeu. "If it was up to me the guy would be dead by now."
"You see? I give you my word that neither of you will see harm if the lady will come peacefully."
"Thirea?" asked Kythe, turning his head (but keeping an eye on the agents). "What do you think?"
"I think I want a smoke," she decided. "One last smoke before I go, my love."
"By all means," Kythe acceeded, offering her his half-smoked cigarette. She puffed once and stepped forward, walking slowly but confidently toward Trino.
"I am glad that we could resolve this," Trino declared, a smile at the corner of his face. "Come now, Madame Nellis. We have much to discuss at the compound."
Thirea walked about three yards together with the agents. Then she screamed, "NOW!" and she jammed her burning cigarette into Trino's eye and grabbed his gun. Taking him by the wrist, she twisted him around and put his own gun at the agent's head. Meanwhile, Kythe had taken out his Deutsches and had started blasting away at the helicopter above them. He shot up the panel and kept firing, slowly backing away from under it. Thirea saw what he was doing and followed suit, nervously getting away from the helicopter in case it should blow up and fall.
"I know how long and hard you train your agents!" she screamed. "Kill me and I kill him!"
"Trino, what should I do?" asked Amadeu, dumbfounded.
"Do-what-she-says!" he choked out.
"Drop your weapons, and get outta here, or I kill him!" she threatened. "I give you to the count of-"
BOOM!
Kythe had hit one of the gas tanks in the helicopter. A second after the explosion, shattered glass fell like snow beneath it. Since it wasn't a military helicopter (the Imperium didn't need to arm their transport craft when attacking their own citizens) there was probably very little protection against the blast as far as the cockpit was concerned, and so the crew was dead. Miraculously, the helicopter was still flying, but it was smoking and wobbling. Kythe decided to stop shooting.
"Get. In. The. Helicopter." Thirea commanded, as Amadeu threw down his gun and ran for the rope ladder. She threw Trino away in disgust towards him. Trino, to the credit of his professional instinct, recovered and merely waked briskly towards the helicopter.
"Adieu, my friends, and Viva Imperium," he acknowledged as, holding onto the rope ladder, the helicopter started moving up and away.
* * *
They made their way carefully after that towards the Resistance hideout.
"Here we are, dead ahead," Thirea nodded.
Kythe looked. A pub was there. It was a shambles of car parts, plywood, and cloth all pinned together between three trees.
Trees were a rare occurrence in the Undercity. However, the air had to be refreshed somehow, and it was cheaper than a city-wide circulation system. So near the support poles, where there was the most light, grew small forest plots.
"Welcome to the Sector Seven Spirits," she invited.
"Such a lovely place," noted Kythe sardonically.
"It's a lovely place," approved Thirea without the sarcasm.
"Is this a real bar?" he asked.
"Of course it's a real bar," she maintained. "A semi-classy one, too; well, classy for the Undercity."
"What, so you can get a glass of wine?"
"We've had that spirit here since... 1869," she remembered. "'69 was the year that Haymis came to power... that the Resistance formed. I was only fourteen back then, and my real dad was the leader of the Resistance. His name was Joshua Snow."
"Joshua Snow," pondered Kythe as they walked in and sat down at the bar. "I remember hearing about a Joshua Snow. They caught him, I think."
"Yes, they caught him. Three days later, though, we busted him out, but of course the Imperium isn't gonna mention that. He's gone up to Halfax now, to direct us from there. He's gathering an army there, with Resistance funds, and one day my dad's gonna come back and free Mirilen."
"I see," said Kythe. "So you're in charge?"
"Not of the whole outfit. Just Sec7."
"Madame?" asked the barkeep. "What would you like to drink?"
"Wine on the rocks. My father's favorite," she ordered, winking. He nodded slowly.
"We have a wide selection of wines, madame. Perhaps you and your friend should come with me to the wine cellar."
Kythe could recognize a password when he heard one, so he followed them. The barkeep drew aside a curtain and came to a back kitchen. In a corner, secluded from the sink and the oven, was a piece of rusty sheet metal with a lock on it. After unlocking it, the barkeep motioned them ahead.
Beneath, there was a room. It was a cool, temperate dug-out room, about the size of a bedroom. A wine rack was on one wall, and above it was a weapons rack. On the far wall was a small electric lamp set into the dirt, the only source of light in the room. On the left wall hung the Union flag and a framed poster with a white-haired man in a blue-and-white striped and starred hat, red bowtie and blue jacket pointing, with old Angol lettering at the bottom. On the opposite wall, there was a white flag with a blue rectangle and red cross in the upper left corner.
Kythe approached the white flag. He had never seen anything like it before.
"A relic," explained Thirea. "It flew over the Dystroch during the Final Offensive of '77. The President had given up his crown, reissued the First Amendment, and ordered the flag of the Union that flew over Gapitolhil to be taken down and hidden for the day when the Union might live again. He then flew this flag, the symbol of the hope of Emeriqua from days ancient, in its place. When Haymis' Army of the Patomak finally stood in the Great Mall, they saw only the President and his Congress saluting this flag in silence. Only a select few know its deepest meaning."
"What is its deepest meaning?" asked Kythe, his curiosity piqued. "I've never even seen this flag before."
"When Haymis had himself crowned President, he ordered this flag to be taken down and burned. We had taken it down the night before, though, and hidden it away here as a symbolic gesture of defiance against Haymis. He then revoked the First Amendment and united both the Kingdom of Bellamarha and the Presidency of Dystroch Columilis into the new Mirilenian Imperium."
"An interesting anecdote, but you never answered my question," Kythe replied.
"I did, it's just that you weren't listening," she countered. "Like I said, it stands for Emeriqua's last best hope since time immemorial. But to say it outright would be treason."
"-Because of Haymis revoking the First Amendment. So you're saying the flag stands for freedom?"
"Well, in a sense, yes. The greatest freedom, irrevokable by any government."
"'Nothing to kill or die for, no religion, too?'" piped in Kythe. "I understand what you're speaking. But then why sing 'Imagine'?"
"Because it's not religion," she defended. "Religion is the opiate of the mass-"
At that moment four people walked into the wine cellar. They all wore hoods and baggy clothing, so their appearance was indistinguishable, as was their gender unless they spoke.
"I see you're all here. Did anyone get the helicopter on tape?" asked Thirea.
"Yes, I managed to," said one, who had a deep, masculine-sounding voice. He sat down on the packed earth floor.
"Excellent," rejoiced Thirea. "We can get it to the underground press by tomorrow. That oughtta cheer everyone up for a bit. But, of course, that's not the reason why we're all here."
"This man with you, I assume he has the letter from Lindberg?" asked a different person, this time with a feminine voice.
"Yes. Give us the letter now," commanded Thirea.
Am I fighting Macsordoc in person or spirit? pondered Kythe momentarily as he got out the letter.
We've had that spirit here since 1869, he thought. He gave them the letter.
"Unopened," noted one of them. "Good."
Thirea opened it up, and inside was a piece of lined notebook paper.
To Thirea,
We have infected the kingdom of gold with philosophy and harmonicas. Friends and allies stand poised on young bones to take the city by the salty lake. The northland free and brave is ready to fight against the empire of orioles on our command. The first in Emeriqua will march alongside us without reservation. I personally will go to middle Emeriqua and from there seize the second city.
The time that our ancestors yearned for is upon us. Send word among the Society to start beating swords from plowshares. But do nothing until the messenger starts off the revolt with a bang in Kamden.
Liberate Res Publica,
-Lindberg
"Wow, it's time!" rejoiced Thirea. "The time is here!"
"Wait just a minute here," Kythe interjected. "Brent- I, uh, mean, Lindberg, has people in Calipha, Salakh Sid, Autawa and Lazvekas! How is all this possible!?"
"I dunno, but you're our point man for the assassination of Mirilen's War Minister," informed Thirea.
* * *
Kythe walked back upstairs in stunned silence. He sat down at the bar and ordered a scotch on the rocks. As he took his first sip, a group of seven people walked in, all dressed in black and red. They were heavily pierced, and most of them seemed in their early twenties. They sat at a nearby table, and, because he was intrigued by their strange dress, he watched them out of the corner of his eye.
"How much money you all got?" asked a man.
"Don't worry, I'm covering this," a different man with dark black hair, mirrored sunglasses and a black trenchcoat assured. "Somebody order a bottle of red wine and a loaf of bread."
Kythe watched them order, and then another man turned to the trenchcoated man.
"So Chrysanth, the bunch of us are going to Orialfelt for the ballgame today. We were wondering if you wanted to come along...? We have money for the extra ticket."
Chrysanth, the trenchcoated one, looked discomfited all of a sudden. "Um, I have something to do. I'm afraid that I gotta do it in the middle of the ballgame. Sorry."
"What? All the jobs are giving time off for the workers to go to the ball game," informed a woman.
"I'm not from here, remember? I don't have a-um, normal job. Let's just say that I'm not... free to go. Does that make sense?"
An expression of understanding dawned on their faces.
"So you're-"
"There's gonna be a-"
"Does anyone know about-"
The one known as Chrysanth silenced their questions with a finger to his lip. "Not a word, eh?" A waitress came with the bread and wine. Once they received the food, they glanced around nervously.
"Nobody's watching you," Kythe told them.
"You are," one of the women replied.
"Don't be so harsh," Chrysanth reproved. Then, looking up at Kythe, he said, "You may watch. The two of us should talk in a moment."
Kythe nodded, and sipped his scotch, watching them as they bent over the food, whispering as they held their hands over the bread and wine. Then they sat up.
"Chrysanth, are you sure it's okay for that man to watch?" asked the same woman.
"Let our light shine," the one known as Chrysanth answered as he took the bread and split it into seven portions. "Panem corpus Xristos est, quod dedit pro eripiere de malus. Accipit et consumit." Kythe wasn't sure, but it sounded like Lhadin. But whatever it was, the seven of them ate their portion of the bread after he was done talking.
"Vinum sanguis Xristos est," Chrysanth orated, pouring each person a glass of wine, "quod dedit pro malus de totius. Accipit et bibit." And each of the seven drank their wine.
"Stranger, come sit with us. We will buy you a meal, and we can talk."
Even though compared to the average poor Undercityman he was obscenely rich (one could make a killing in the mercenary field), Kythe was not one to reject a gift. Besides, he was intrigued. Too much about this city was intriguing him as of late.
"What was that... thing you people did?"
"We drank the blood of our King," a boy of fourteen explained.
"You have no King, according to the Imperium," informed Kythe, double speaking. "Haymis says he deposed Him."
"All the forces of earth and hell couldn't depose our King," Chrysanth affirmed. "They can slay His followers, but they will tremble in fear when He returns. Now you understand why we're being secretive."
"There's no law forbidding free worship," Kythe countered, bewildered. "You just have to do homage to the President once a year."
"That would be treason to our King. We'll die first," Chrysanth expounded. "They can kill our bodies, but our souls are invincible. Nevertheless, we have a job to do here, so it helps to keep a low profile."
"You are Iasu worshippers, I presume," Kythe reasoned. "No other cult is so famous for Presidential martyrdoms."
"Yes. Now, you're wondering why I offered to pay for your meal and all," Chrysanth said. "I can't explain it, but I get this feeling, like God wants me to tell you something. Kythe, God is going to use you in the next month or so. I don't know what, but something huge is coming your way, something so tremendous that I don't know if Mirilen will ever be the same because of it. He will send you to war and bring down a stronghold of the enemy through you. Does this bear out with anything in your life?"
"Yes, actually it does. Like you wouldn't believe. And- HEY! How'd you know my name was Kythe!?"
"I didn't. But the Lord knew. Kythe, the two of us will meet again, I am certain. Somewhere in middle Emeriqua."
"That remains to be seen," Kythe responded. "But I suppose anything is possible." He nodded, cracked a rare near-smile, and left the Sector Seven Spirits.
* * *
Kythe was walking back to the inn he was staying at for the night. The public address crackled with news from the Western front.
"Comrades! An important development is upon us! The city of Petisverg has just been liberated!" crowed the loudspeakers. "The Jacagoan Trans-Misseppa Army has been routed from the downtown, and at present are barely holding onto the suburbs. Petisverg's Neo-Republican party leader, Vedchin Cuisling, has been proclaimed Mayor by the Pansolvinan Liberation Committee of the Imperium. Long live Haymis! Long live Mirilen! Long live the Imperium!"
Kythe thought back to his brief experience with Petisverg, and his protracted experience with the Jacago League. A collective of city-states headed by Jacago's President, Daley XVII, it was formed to give opposition to the Imperium. However, it had degenerated into a Jacagoan puppet filled with extortionist soldiers and two-faced politicians.
But I'd rather live in Jacago than Bellamarha, he thought. Jacago has a criminal government, but there are some virtues. The Imperium is just downright evil, though.
After the bulletin was over, the ballgame (Bellamarha vs. Telanta) was broadcasted. It was the middle of the third inning.
Beggars stood around a flaming trash can, keeping warm and listening to the ball game. He knew that Bellamarha's team was going to win; they won nine out of ten games. Of course, the games were rigged. Not just in baseball, but in every sport in every part of the Imperium. However, down in Telanta, they would hear differently: they would read in the papers that the Braves had won. So in every part of the Imperium, the local teams were winning.
"And Macgregory steps to the plate. Eric Macgregory, what a ballplayer, I tell ya. And after such a tragic life, too," one of the broadcasters related.
"Yeah. A refugee from the Jacagoan death camps after his battalion was captured. All I can say is that the Imperium is lucky to have taken Memfaz. Otherwise we would be short a real slugger and a real hero, too, for that matter."
"Yeah. Thank Haymis he survived. And-a strike!"
There aren't any death camps in the League! screamed Kythe's memory.
"The count is oh-and-one," the announcer noted. "He swings-and a hit! It's headed for the fences! It's going, go-" Static.
"Do not adjust your radio set," interrupted a deep masculine voice, as the live feed from the ballpark was severed. "This is Freedom Radio, Liberty's last voice in the Imperium." All around the Undercity, a hush settled: people were straining to hear this bulletin, regardless of whether they were pro- or anti- Imperium. When Freedom Radio managed an audio hack, people sat up and took notice.
"It appears that the Imperium has supposedly 'liberated' the city of Petisverg. Go to a movie tonight, and before the feature the newsreel will be more than happy to show you pictures of the Petisvergi waving little Mirilenian flags and throwing confetti on the triumphant Imperial Liberation Army. You will get a warm, fuzzy, mildly patriotic feeling in your head.
"Then, after watching the movie, apply for a travel pass out of Bellamarha, and head to the 'liberated' city of Petisverg. What you will see is not happy people waving flags. You will see a desert of smashed concrete, unburied smoldering human bodies, and seas of glass shards. You will see fires burning in various sections of the city, and you will see the tracks of tank treads. What happened here? Maybe one of the slaughtered civilians could tell you. Maybe not.
"On a better note, the IIA was going about its usual business of harassing citizens today, and they were harassed in turn. An Agency helicopter's gas tank was blown by an armed civilian, and four agents were killed. This is proof that the oppression cannot and will not go on forever. Something major will happen soon, and Mirilen will never be the same again. I cannot say what or when, save that it will be soon. And when it happens Freedom Radio will cut in and call for all true patriots to take to the streets. Liberate Res Publica."
"-And a fly ball to second base... and that ends the inning." They went on like nothing happened. They all did. But something had.
Kythe arrived at the inn just as the game ended, with, of course, a Bellamarhan victory. The announcers reminded the listening audience about the Imperial Party Rally at Orialfelt next week, and then the radio fell silent. It was nine o' clock, and in the Overcity the curfew would begin in an hour. In the Undercity, there was no curfew.
The two cities are complete opposites, Kythe realized. The Overcity is beautiful and ancient and rich and Haymis controls it with oppressive laws. The Undercity is dark and filthy and poor and Haymis controls it with crime.
Even if Macsordoc never had a hand in the Imperium, it needs to fall.
* * *
For breakfast, he headed to the Sec7 Spirits. This was standard Resistance procedure; have a central place to gather, and then hang out there on a regular basis. This was how Resistance cells throughout the Imperium would operate. It ensured that messages could be easily passed along, and to the ever-watchful eyes of the IIA it just looked like a harmless routine.
Kythe entered and ordered coffee. He then sat down at a table near one of the trees. He studied this tree. A long time ago, there had been trees all over Emeriqua, so he had heard. After the Idealists and two millennia of ceaseless warfare and industrialization, though, the entire East was a dry, arid plain that had become an outright desert in some areas. The only great forests on the continent now were in Kannata, Calipha and the North Pausyphic. The last real forest he had seen was the Fontan Forest near Aumaja.
"Coffee, sir?" asked a waitress. He looked up and saw Thirea. She winked at him.
"Yes, ma'am," he nodded, pretending they never met. If they were being specifically watched, their act was fooling nobody. But a casual paid informant (there were tons of them everywhere, but especially in places under suspicion of harboring the Resistance) would have no clue.
"So, are you planning to go to the Party Rally?" Thirea asked, seemingly casually. "I hear that Minister Enobal is going to give a killer speech."
Kythe read between the lines and took a sip of coffee. "I don't know. What did they say ticket prices were?"
She caught his meaning. "I don't know. I'd imagine that tickets would be free. Anyone who calls himself a patriot should be there, regardless of ticket cost."
"I heard differently," Kythe said. "I heard that tickets are going for fifteen." To the average observer, they would think he meant fifteen cents. Thirea knew he meant fifteen dollars, the price for a squadron of basic mercenaries for one battle.
"Well, I'm not sure. You're from out of town, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yeah," he nodded. He wasn't sure if he should add 'from Aumaja', what with Aumaja being an anarchy and all.
"It would be a real shame for you to come from all the way out of town and miss the Rally," she noted, a hint of nastiness in her tone. "I think you'd regret it later on."
"I just don't have the fifteen," Kythe replied. "Nobody will hire me, and I gotta live carefully."
"Oh, you poor thing," pitied a grandmotherly type. "I know what it's like to be unemployed. But I think you ought to go. Here, I have fifteen cents. Take them and it'll pay for your ticket. They're gonna cancel the Overcity Transit Fee for the day of the rally, so you can walk there."
"I can't take this," Kythe insisted. "I wouldn't feel right."
"Go on," she insisted. "I'm an old lady. I have decades of memories to keep me company. I don't need to see the pomp of the rally. Why, I remember the King of Bellamarha used to put on these grand parades whenever >
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