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Mindo the Hero
(c) Alistair Potter
Chapter [1]
Glass-fronted office buildings border the Grand
Plaza of Mindo on three sides, with a busy thoroughfare running along the
fourth; tall ornate railings surround the Plaza proper. Set opposite the
road, and dominating the scene, is the weathered bronze statue of Mindo the
Revolutionary Hero. He poses like a mountain climber at the very top of a
peak, gripping a flag standard, which rises triumphantly above his head.
I made for my favourite bench, which is tucked in
a corner well away from the road. As the sun sinks and the buildings cast
their shadows, it’s always the last bright spot.
Tastefully planted with small trees and bushes,
and with a scattering of pools and fountains, the Plaza is a lovely place to
visit on a sunny afternoon. It’s also one of the few truly open spaces
remaining in the centre of Numa City, the capital of the Congress of
Numanian states.
As usual, it was busy, and just before I sat I
paused to watch a group of tourists standing in front of Mindo’s statue,
their faces aglow with wonder as they read the plaque at the foot of the
black marble plinth.
I know every word on that plaque - which I should, since I wrote it.
I shuddered as a faint tingle of static
electricity tickled the back of my neck. Reflexively, I turned my face away
as a small spherical surveillance drone drifted by about four metres off the
ground. Its mirrored metallic skin reflected both the ever-blue of the clear
skies above the city, and a strangely distorted panoramic view of the Plaza.
Optical data streamed from its scanning lens to the central computers, and
given enough time it would identify everyone in the Plaza. Everyone, that
is, except me. If the drone had a clear image, my scan would return Terrence
Mutz - retired waste disposal technician.
I often wonder if Mutz ever existed, or if the
Council of Freedom made the name up to save time. Without stating the
obvious - Terrence Mutz bears a striking resemblance to Mindo the
Revolutionary Hero. Maybe not so much to the statue - the Council used a bit
of licence there - they made me taller - more rugged and handsome, with a
powerful heroic build. I think it was a committee effort. I suppose I should
have been grateful that they let me write the inscription on the plaque - at
least I got some sort of recognition for all that I’d done.
The drone drifted past the group in front of the
statue and stopped, hovering above a poor sod sitting by a fountain. Every
time the man opened a metal lunchbox by his side the drone shifted position
to try and look inside it. I almost laughed when I saw a pair of grey-clad
Enforcers striding across the Plaza towards him. This was law-enforcement at
its most ludicrous.
Shouting and gesturing at the lunchbox, the
Enforcers got the man to his feet. Passers by studiously avoided any sign of
interest, averting their gaze in true obedient-citizen fashion.
Given better circumstances I would have liked to
meet the man with the lunchbox. He was definitely someone who still knew
what personal freedom was about. I admired his nerve as he took his time
laying out a neat row of sandwiches and fruit for the Enforcers to inspect.
I’m sure my jaw dropped when he whipped out a
small hand-stunner and fired; its insistent buzz all but lost in the
background noise. In an instant both Enforcers were out cold on the ground,
then the man turned on the drone. In a control room somewhere, someone had
hit just a panic button to scramble a rapid response team.
The drone had no protocol for this situation; it
just floated there as the man slowly fried its circuits. First it wobbled,
smoke jetting from its stabilising thrusters, then it burst into flames, and
finally, with a loud bang, it crashed to the ground. Good sense stopped me
raising both arms above my head and cheering.
For most of the people near me, the drone
exploding was their first warning that something was wrong. I’d seen it all
unfold, and knew from the second the man drew the stunner, that I should
have been somewhere else. Only my perverse pleasure at watching the drama
unfold had kept me there, but now it was definitely time to leave.
Screams filled the air and an acrid burnt-plastic
smell drifted with the smoke from the burning drone. I sidestepped around my
bench and backed slowly and carefully towards the nearest gate, about ten
metres away. I was half way there when the first helicopter drop ship
arrived; skimming the rooftops and sweeping in over the plaza, its siren
wailing and its twin rotors hammering the air.
Drop ships carry men or light vehicles, they’re
big ugly boxes with high mounted rotors over the front and rear. This one
settled into the Plaza, its downdraught throwing dust, shrubs and people
aside with equal disregard. Once down, Enforcers tumbled out in number. Most
citizens cowered or fell back in panic; strangely, a baffling few were drawn
forward.
Amidst this confusion and bustle I continued my
hopefully inconspicuous progress until I was through the gate and out of the
Plaza.
Two more drop ships arrived and a fleet of ground
cars. The Enforcers used the railings around the Plaza as their perimeter,
erecting barriers across all the exits and trapping everyone still inside.
A flurry of drones filled the air, spreading
through the adjoining streets to watch for unusual activity.
I let myself get pushed up to the railing with the inevitable rubber-neckers
and watched as everyone in the Plaza was methodically gathered up and
bundled into a fleet of carriers. Anyone caught would be held while their
papers were checked and their movements corroborated against surveillance
records. The man with the lunchbox was somewhere among them.
Who was he? Someone stretched to the limit
probably - finally snapped and decided to go out in a blaze of glory. None
of this would make the news, since it involved a direct attack on the
Enforcers. He’d get a swift trial and execution. At least that was better
than the old regime, which inevitably involved some form of torture.
With the Plaza almost empty, Enforcers dressed in
riot gear pushed out into our crowd, shouting and menacing us with stun
sticks; ordering an immediate dispersal. It was exactly what I had been
waiting for - so I dutifully obliged.
Merging with the general flow, I walked to the
nearest overhead transit station. There was a queue at street level due to a
couple of Enforcers running body searches with a scanning loop at the foot
of the steps. I took out my I.D. and waited my turn.
The Automated Overhead Transit System is my
favourite form of transport. Unmanned and with seating for four, it wasn’t
unusual to ride the cars alone. Running on a flexible network of tracks, a
computer at Central Traffic Control chooses the fastest route to the
customer’s destination. I bought my ticket at the auto-dispenser then waited
on the platform to be called forward. In minutes it was my turn; the car
swept in and disembarked the previous passengers, then my ticket number was
simultaneously announced on the intercom and flashed by overhead displays.
I went to the car and fed in my ticket. As soon
as I was settled in the padded seating, the vehicle accelerated out of the
station. CTC had already signalled for cars on the main track to anticipate
my inclusion in the flow. I slipped into a gap, the vehicles ahead having
accelerated slightly and the others behind slowing. From inside the car
these speed changes are barely perceptible. The rhythmic jostling was a
welcome antidote to the adrenalin-high shakes I was still experiencing.
It was late in the afternoon and the office
blocks passing to either side were full of busy minds finding ways to
justify their jobs. I know it’s a cynical view, but after the revolution I’m
sure administrative positions doubled at all levels.
A siren sounded nearby and I craned to watch as
an Enforcer cruiser on the street below hurled itself through the traffic,
its over-ride beacon slewing the vehicles in its path to left and right.
My transit car turned onto a curving branch line,
immediately slipping into shadow between two buildings, and the siren’s wail
grew faint behind me.
The buildings to either side dropped steadily in
height as the car moved out of the city centre; a swathe of trees and
greenery signalling the approach to the suburbs. The car left the main track
and stopped at my local station. There was Enforcer presence here - though
just the one. He stood watching the comings and goings through reflective
sunglasses. His stun-stick was holstered, which was a good sign.
At the foot of the transit station steps a
passing drone paused to record my progress as I crossed the empty road and
made my way into the heart of the suburban complex where I live. These were
older houses - red brick and timber, with real slate roofs - unusual
survivors of the final battles that razed most of the properties near the
capital to the ground. Not that there were any signs of that; as promised,
the Council of Freedom had rebuilt the landscape quickly and efficiently.
I cut diagonally across my cropped lawn and up
the porch steps. Turning, I gazed out over the street. Sunshine bathed the
neat rows of small, detached bungalows. It promised to be a nice evening -
just right for sitting out and watching the world go by until curfew.
Contemplating my exit from the Plaza, I doubted
whether the Enforcers would follow up on every citizen that leaked from the
edge of the sweep. It was all pretty arbitrary and pointless anyway; they’d
have most of it recorded, and all anyone could do was fill in the confused
gap between the loss of the drone’s signal and the first drop ship arriving.
They came about three in the morning - a strike
team of Enforcers - announcing their arrival by firing tear gas canisters
through every window. I was on the floor in an instant, just in time to hear
both front and back doors being simultaneously blown from their hinges. A
pure nonsense, as the Enforcers have keys to all properties in Numania.
As the noise of heavy boots approached through
the darkness and gas I shouted, “You could have just rung the doorbell!”
I got no response.
They bundled me face down and pulled my arms back
to snap on handcuffs, then a hood was pulled over my head. The last thing I
felt was the sting of a sedative injector on my shoulder.
I woke in a brightly lit cell. I lay on a simple
bed platform; there was no other furniture except for a functional stainless
steel toilet. The walls, floor, and bed were all finished in white
wipe-clean ceramic tiles. I was dressed in pale blue prison clothes made
from recycled paper. Printed across the chest of the short-sleeved shirt was
the word INTERROGATION.
A voice came from an overhead speaker. “Name?”
No point in antagonising them, so in a clear
voice I said, “Terrence Mutz.”
“Occupation?”
“Retired.”
“Former occupation?”
“Waste disposal technician.”
There was a long silence, then the cell door
swung open and two clone like grey-clad Enforcers with shaven heads and
square chins came in. A tall man in a white overall followed them. His skin
was pale and lifeless, almost translucent in places. An involuntary shiver
went down my spine.
“Stand,” said the man in white.
I obliged and the clone boys took up position to
either side of me.
The man in white produced a small hand computer
and examined the screen for a few seconds, his long, thin fingers fluttering
over the computer’s keypad.
“Mutz,” he said.
“Yes.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Your records seem a
little sparse?”
It wasn’t the question I had expected. I got it
now; this had nothing to do with the Plaza incident, other than my absence
triggering a background investigation. I responded by shrugging my
shoulders.
“We don’t have anything on you beyond the last
twelve years.”
Twelve years - he was right - it had been twelve
years since the revolution. But I wasn’t about to try and explain anything -
a lot of records had been lost around that time. He tried another tack.
“You seem a bit young to be retired?”
“I developed an intolerance to the chemicals we
used. Had to give it up.”
He nodded. I was just confirming what was on his
screen. He stayed quiet, so I knew I was to keep talking.
“Normally I couldn’t have afforded to retire but
I get a small war pension. It’s enough to get by on.”
“Must leave you with a lot of time on your
hands?”
“I do voluntary work at the veteran’s hospital,”
I said, again knowing he already had the information in front of him.
“Who did you serve with?”
Now it got tricky, I couldn’t say I was in my own
team - according to history they all died in the final assault - including
me. But this had all been worked out before so I stuck to the script.
“Kelvin,” I said.
Kelvin was the dumping ground for most unskilled
volunteers. He was a career soldier before the revolution and had a knack
for turning bumpkins into fighters. In reality, I had fought with his
revolutionary brigade, but not as Mutz. As mobile infantry, we saw action on
most fronts.
The silence was there again.
“Tenson and Rutledge,” I said, completing the
chain of command down to what could have been my sergeant. I knew Rutledge
quite well. He died late on in the conflict, and though it felt strange to
use his name this way, he wouldn’t have minded.
“Artillery,” the man in white suggested casually.
“Light armour and mobile infantry,” I said,
correcting him and avoiding the all too obvious trap.
He seemed satisfied. “That’s all for now,” he
said, waving the two Enforcers out.
I was left alone again. Something unusual was
happening - yes I had ducked out from the sweep, but normally they weren’t
as thorough as this. Maybe it was some new directive from the top, or more
likely an overenthusiastic brown-noser trying to score points for his
record.
Protesting was useless; this would take as long
as it took. I couldn’t imagine they’d have any way to challenge my story, so
it was just a question of time before they released me.
About an hour later I was taken from the cell and
told to shower. They gave me a new set of paper clothes, but printed on the
front of the shirt was the word HOLDING. Holding was good I thought. Holding
meant waiting to be released - it meant the interrogation was over.
But a nagging thought played at the back of my
head - holding could also mean waiting for trial, or for transportation to
prison. I pushed those thoughts away; I was paying the price for ducking out
of the Plaza. I should have stayed where I was and got the whole thing
cleared up like the rest of them.
The holding cell had much the same layout as the
interrogation cell, except that the bed had springing and a mattress. I
managed to get comfortable and drifted off into a fitful slumber.
They must have gassed me while I was sleeping.
When I woke I was back in an interrogation cell but this time strapped to a
skeletal stainless steel chair with my head, arms and legs in restraints.
Sensors stuck to my skin made my forehead itch and the back of my right hand
stung where a needle had been inserted and taped down. A thin tube ran from
the needle, along the top of my forearm and out of sight. It contained a
clear fluid. I felt pretty clear headed, so I concluded they hadn’t
administered anything yet. If they decided to use some sort of truth serum,
things were about to get interesting. I should really have started worrying,
but for all their efforts I couldn’t see that there would be a problem.
After all, I hadn’t done anything wrong.
The man in white appeared, looking more like an
animated corpse than ever.
“What is your name?” he said.
“Terrence Mutz, same as last time.”
His eyes flicked down to the readout on a machine
sitting on a narrow column in front of him. He shook his head a little,
adjusted something, and then said in a low voice, “Just answer the question
asked.”
I felt my throat go dry, swallowing back the
wisecrack poised on the tip of my tongue.
“Where do you live?”
“17 Martins Boulevard.”
“Did you ever meet Nelson?”
“I’m not familiar with that name.” It was an
honest reply - though I couldn’t help wondering if it was the lunchbox man
from the Plaza.
He watched the readout for a moment and seemed
satisfied. The questions continued for about an hour, sometimes repeating,
sometimes innocuous. I wasn’t sure what he would make of my answers - I had
been Terrence Mutz for long enough now for me to regard it as my real name,
at least that’s what I hoped. At the end of it all he merely nodded and
said, “That will do.”
They must have pumped in a sedative because the
last thing I remember was the room going blurry.
I was back in the holding cell and predictably my
shirt read HOLDING. This falling asleep and waking up in different places
was getting to me; I had cooperated for long enough - next chance I got I
would speak up and demand some rights.
I noticed my stomach making quite audible
grumbling noises and wondered if they would give me a shirt with the word
EATING on it if they got round to feeding me?
As if on cue a small panel in the wall slid open
to reveal a tray carrying a segmented plate; each segment held a food item
in the form of a different coloured paste. I took the tray out of the wall
and set it on the bed. There was no way of knowing if the food was drugged,
but what did it matter as long as it fed me?
I decided my favourite was the pink, though the
actual taste was elusive. I couldn’t quite decide if it was fish or bacon -
maybe something in between; bish or facon?
After eating, I replaced the tray in the wall
compartment. Some time later the man in white came to visit; accompanied by
the clone boys, who took up their positions to either side.
“Terrence Mutz,” he began, reading from his hand
computer.
“I’ve had enough of this,” I said.
I heard the clones start to move and tensed for
the first blows, but the man stopped them with a gesture.
Reassured I wasn’t about to be beaten senseless
quite yet, I continued. “I’d like to know what you think I’ve done?”
He pressed some buttons on the computer then
stared me directly in the eye. “There is the matter of you leaving the scene
of a crime - but that’s not our main concern. The problem is that your
records show signs of tampering and we cannot release you until we find out
why this is.”
My heart sank - there was no way Mindo the
Revolutionary Hero could explain a comeback from the dead without being
locked up as a lunatic. “I know nothing about that,” I said, “you need to
talk to the people who keep the records.”
“We have, and they confirm that the records have
been altered - and not by them.”
I clamped my jaw shut, counted to five then said,
“I want to see a lawyer.”
“Tampering with state records is regarded as a
terrorist activity, and as such you can be detained indefinitely without
legal representation.”
“Since when?”
“These powers have been available for some time.”
“So what happens now?”
He stared at me for a full five seconds before
replying, “I think that’s up to you.”
I wanted to scream out at him - if you knew who I
was you wouldn’t be doing this! What I managed was, “I know nothing about
this. Let me speak to someone else.”
He shook his head. “If you have nothing to add to
your statement, we’ll conclude our interview here.”
“Statement, what statement?”
“The privileges of legal representation and
various other rights do not apply in this situation. Everything you have
said and done since your records were altered twelve years ago is admissible
as evidence in this case.”
“Outrageous!” I blustered. “It’ll take forever to
check the last twelve years. What happens in the meantime?”
The man in white allowed a thin smile to form on
his face. “You’ll be placed in a secure holding facility.”
I felt it all slipping away, and a fearful pain
dug at my chest. It was that word HOLDING again - but not the good kind of
holding where I get dumped on the street in an hour’s time without even an
apology - this was the bad kind of holding - the one with no end in sight,
no way to get help, and no way to prove my innocence.
***
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