Urbis

The dismal knot of mourners stood huddled together in an echoing circular hall where the drive units of trains were turned round on a turntable. Illuminated by cold fluorescent lighting, an engineer’s flat car now stood in the middle of the turntable, hovering above the magnetised rail, a mobile catafalque supporting the simple coffin that contained the remains of Bernard Perez. It had been a few short weeks since his beloved Olive had been laid on the selfsame bier, and he had wept bitter tears onto the greasy cobblestones.

Lyall got up onto the turntable and clasped the guardrail with both hands.

“Friends, we are here to bid a final fond farewell to Bernard. Some of us have known him for many years. Some of us...” he glanced at Crispin, sitting in a wheelchair, “...hardly knew him at all. He was a man who cared deeply about others, and felt a genuine and profound sorrow when he saw injustice being done. He grew sad when he saw that those of us who felt as he did were very much a struggling minority, and as our leader he strived to make our voice heard in the corridors of power. It was an awesome responsibility, but he elected for the most part to carry the burden alone.” Lyall hesitated, seeming for a while to have lost the thread of his oration. Then he continued. “He saw his chance to free himself, and he took it, and who amongst us can blame him? There is, of course, no doubt as to what he wished for us to do. We must continue where he left off, we must not let our despair get the better of us, and we will, ultimately, achieve our aim: we will make this city a better place to live.”

He jumped down from the turntable. Slowly, it began to rotate. Around the hall, the black mouths of a number of tunnels gaped. The turntable aligned itself with the track leading into one of them. Gliding at a funereal pace, the flat car bore its load into the inky maw. It was not gone more than a couple of minutes, then it returned, bearing a heap of ashes.

When it had returned to its original place in the middle of the turntable, Lyall climbed back up with an ordinary household dustpan and brush, followed by Charlie clutching a funeral urn, into which the ashes were scooped.

The two men then solemnly led a procession into a foot tunnel. Their way was lit by torches held by members of Bernard’s inner circle, including Josie, cherishing memories of an intimate nature, Marlon, who had adopted him as his father, and Mina, for whom he was the spiritual and political sensei she had come to revere. Their footsteps echoed, and the faint hum of Crispin’s wheelchair reverberated off the dank brickwork. As they progressed, Crispin observed names and dates scratched into the walls. Scores of them. This disused section of the subterranean transit system had been turned into catacombs by the Underground. Here they buried their dead and honoured them as heroes.

The party stopped where some bricks had been removed. Charlie placed the urn into the hole in the wall. Lyall slapped some mortar onto one of the bricks and put it back into position, then handed the trowel to Mina and invited her to do likewise. The trowel passed from hand to hand, and one by one the bricks were replaced. Crispin was not left out. His inclusion was an unspoken affirmation that he was an accepted member of the team.

Charlie pushed the last brick home, muttering, “So long, Bernard.”

Two weeks passed. Crispin had finally been allowed out of his chair, though he still walked with a stick.

Word came of Security raids in other Sectors, and of leaders picked up as Bernard had been. But following Crispin’s rescue, the guards around key prisoners had been tripled. The captured men and women of the Underground would unquestionably be undergoing torture. A crisis meeting was called. Lyall and Crispin attended as representatives of Sector Three.

The Underground convention took place in marshalling yards, guarded by three concentric circles of electronic eyes to warn of interlopers, as well as a goodly number of human eyes on rooftops and other vantage points. Within this defensive shield, delegates sat on packing cases or on the rolling stock, or on overhead gantries, within a shed that occupied well over a hectare. The acoustics left much to be desired, and without the benefit of a public address system, the convenor had difficulty making himself heard. Added to which, the meeting was a rowdy affair, with numerous attendees proposing wild and fanciful strategies for countering Security oppression.

Lyall and Crispin sat perched on chemical drums, flanked by two close allies, Ron Singh and Lily Whitcomb, both in their forties and veterans of countless such meetings, but both admitted that the palpable threat in the air was something new, heralding, perhaps, that the low level intifada of the past was now about to be scaled up into a more overt campaign against the governing regime. The tension felt at this convocation was something of a higher order than anything they had experienced before. Torsos like coiled springs, legs like tensioned bowstrings, fists hammered into palms, beetling brows. Gone was the usual amiable banter, the screw was being turned, and there was much talk of retribution.

Lyall had begun to settle into the role of leader of Sector Three. While he admired Bernard, he had been chafing for months to put some of his own ideas into practice, and now his time had come. Tonight there would be the formality of his nomination being agreed to, and then he would have a free rein.

Ron elbowed him in the side, and he snapped out of his abstracted train of thought and into full attention.

Dolores Brophy was speaking. She was the Underground’s chairperson, a feisty middle aged woman with iron grey hair who, it was universally agreed, looked nothing like a “Dolores”.

“Item ten on the agenda. It is with profound regret that we have learnt of the... suicide of sector three’s Bernard Perez. It is as a serious personal and organisational loss. It is also a blow in this present emergency, as his wisdom is needed. We mourn his passing. Sector Three urgently requires a leader, and the motion before you is that Bernard’s 2IC, Lyall Marchetti, be appointed. I believe him to be a worthy successor: reliable, courageous...”

A man squatting on the floor close to her raised his hand.

“Howard?” said Dolores.

“A point of order. The chair is required to be impartial.”

“Shut up, Howard,” someone yelled.

“Does anyone need a character analysis on Lyall?” said Dolores.

“Well, since you mention it, yes,” said a voice.

Dolores looked disdainfully in the direction that the voice had come from. “Antonia?”

A tall woman with striking auburn hair, dressed in a long flowing gown that contrasted with the battle fatigues of many of those around her, stood on a signal gantry, up near the roof of the building.

“We all remember Bernard as one of the champions of non-violence among us,” Antonia continued. There are those of us who revere him for that, and who consider that the best way forward, in memory of him, is the path of passive resistance. Aggression only takes us down in the gutter with Security.”

“Hear, hear,” someone said from close to where Antonia was standing.

“Now, as for Lyall,” she went on, “we know that he has a different slant on things. Bernard’s second he may have been, but we know he’s been itching to take on the enemy in a fire fight. Forgive me for thinking the unthinkable, but it does seem that Bernard’s supposed suicide is just a little too convenient.”

Lyall was on his feet, staring up at her. “What do you mean, supposed suicide?”

Antonia remained unruffled. “Well, this parachute that never opened. We haven’t seen it. Perhaps it didn’t open because it was sabotaged.”

Lyall clenched his fists. “Why, you...”

“That’s enough!” Dolores barked.

“I think she’s right,” said a male voice from another part of the hall. “There are alternatives to fighting. Do I not destroy my enemy if I make him my friend?”

“I said that’s enough! Appeasement is not our policy.” Dolores was clearly struggling to maintain her authority. “It’s academic, anyway. There is no proposed alternative candidate. A vote, then? Lyall Marchetti, for leader of Sector Three. Proposed by Ron Singh. Seconded by Lily Whitcomb. Those in favour?”

A forest of hands rose.

“Against?”

A scattering of hands. “Twelve,” Dolores counted.

“Abstentions?”

None.

“Motion carried.”

The discussion turned to the problem of the Security raids, and how to deal with the breaches of Underground secrecy which were the likely result.

Crispin became lost in his own thoughts. He was becoming bitter towards those around him: he had rescued Bernard for them - it wasn’t his fault Bernard had chosen to take his life - and they had yet to do anything towards fulfilling their side of the bargain. He was still no nearer to finding Tana, and if there was some sort of war brewing... Well, he would have to move quickly. And, it appeared, alone.

He jumped down from his drum. “My leg is aching,” he said to Lyall. “I need to walk around a bit.” And with that, he slipped away into the shadows.

He walked swiftly as he could for a few minutes, slipping quietly between storage bins, and easily evading the first line of watching guards. He followed a railway track which he hoped would lead him out of the marshalling yards and away.

A few minutes later, a shrill whistle rent the air. Alarms bleeped, and a warning cry was heard: “Filth! Filth! Security’s coming!”

“Meeting adjourned!” Dolores bellowed over the din as people stampeded towards prearranged exits. Chaos reigned as bullhorns crackled, Security men commanding everyone to remain where they were.

Lyall looked around for Crispin. “Crispin! Crispin! Where are you?”

“Come on!” Ron yelled at him. “You can’t afford to get caught.”

“But you don’t understand!” Lyall retorted. “He’s a stranger, he knows nothing...”

Ron seized him by the shirt. “And you know a great deal. If the filth get you, it could be the end of everything.”

Lyall reluctantly nodded, conceding the logic, and allowed Ron and Lily to hurry him away. He glanced over his shoulder, hoping to glimpse Crispin, but saw only the advancing Security Commission officers, becoming embroiled in hand-to-hand fighting with Underground people.

“If he’s the great survivor you say he is,” Lily put in encouragingly, “he’ll be all right, I’m sure.”

They ducked through a concealed side door and out into the moonless night. Shouts and sporadic gunfire were coming from all quarters. Soon the screams of the dying were added to the din.

They raced across the goods yards, hopping across the linkages between wagons. A two man autogyro with a searing Nightsun beam came after them, chattering angrily while the pilot yelled something incomprehensible at them. The brilliant white beam turned this way and that, filling the darkest shadows with a close approximation of daylight. Panting, they slipped into the lee of a hut until the machine turned away in search of new quarry.

The crunch of boots on gravel approached. Lyall slipped his sidearm out of a pocket and slipped off the safety catch. As the sound of the footsteps grew louder, he raised his weapon. A figure stumbled round the corner: it was Crispin.

“Crispin!” Lyall gasped. “I almost killed you!”

“I was trying to get away,” Crispin panted, his barely-healed legs protesting. “From all of you.”

“Bad luck,” said Lyall. “It looks like you’re stuck with us for a while yet.”

Two tracks away a train of empty ore trucks was starting to move, impelled by a distant microchip.

“Come on!” Lyall exclaimed. “That’s our ticket out of here.”

He sprang from the shadow and began haring after the moving train, looking back to be sure the others were following. Ron was a few paces back, helping Crispin, Lily was somewhat further behind.

With an athletic leap Lyall bounded onto a truck, looked back and held out his hand. Crispin grabbed it. Lyall lurched forward: the weight of his friend was more than he had bargained for. Clumsily, Crispin drew one leg up, and then the other. Lyall turned his attention to Ron, whose strength seemed to be fading. With a last furious effort he closed the gap between himself and the train and sprang aboard. Then they looked behind again. Lily was close to the train, but it was picking up speed. And behind Lily, closing fast on a parallel track, was another train. Lily did not appear to have noticed it.

“Lily!!!” Ron and Lyall hollered in unison, pointing and waving, while Crispin looked on aghast, struck dumb by the prospect of disaster.

She looked round, and in so doing, stumbled and fell. The robotic locomotive hit her, sending her flying through the air. It drew level with the three men, a dark smear clearly visible on its bodywork. Then it passed, trailing a long line of fuel tankers. The three men clambered over the side of the gravel truck they were riding on, Lyall hauling Crispin up by main force, and then seeking to give the older man a hand while at the same time bracing himself against the swaying of the train as it continued to gain speed, and thus they escaped into the night.