Source: Beyond Samizdat

A slow rain falls in the darkness. Most of the street pylons are darkened. The battered surface of the street glistens under their failing glow. The only sound is that of the drops, the slow dripping from the edges of the curved roof, and the steps of a solitary man, face concealed within the folds of a rain hood.

He halts at a door of warped glow plastic. Only a few scattered patches of dim light remain. He strikes it with the side of his fist. Twice. A pause. Twice more. The door opens a crack on darkness.

"I'm selling some bread," the man states quietly. "A quarter ticket is all you need."

A voice emerges from the narrow opening. "Have no need for bread, a quarter ticket or not. But it's a filthy night. Will you step in for a cup of tea, brother?" The door opens more widely, and a figure can be dimly seen.

"Much appreciated, brother. Indeed it's foul." The hooded man steps within the door, and it closes against the rain.

"It's good to see you."

"And you." His lenses glint in a faint light from the end of the short hallway.

"Let me take your coat."

"Is everyone here?"

"Yes. And what's so important? That's what they all want to know."

"No one likes this less than I do. But it is important. I'm hardly going to tell you in the hallway. Let's do this once, get it over with, and send them all on their way."

A tiny room, centered by a table on which stands a single candle. Three men and a woman surround the table, glasses partly full before them. Behind them, a small window looks out on the courtyard, but the thin drapes have been pulled across it. The visitor takes his place among them, and the woman pushes a glass to him.

"What is it this time?" he asks.

"Lasky," she replies. A bitter chuckle. "Private stock."

He lifts the glass and surveys the others. "More the pity." He tosses it back in a single swallow, gasps slightly, smiles. "Decent batch." he mutters. He looks over the wire rim of his glasses at them. "But this isn't a reunion, is it? No, I have a problem, and I need advice."

"Go on," one urges.

"Do you know about the bombing at the TBoard?"

General nods. "Of course," the woman answers. "The rumor is all over the city. The local Council is hard at work on a newsreel to deflect the issue."

"My boy was there when it happened. Knows about it, and brought the damn source home with him. Wants to help. The kid's starting to sound aggressive, himself. No, he's not going to do that sort of act. But the situation's unstable. Any kind of exposure could come out of this. Frankly, I'm worried."

Another man, with a thick long beard sips his drink, then offers a comment. "They're looking all over the city. But they are making some noise about very confused descriptions, and you know how poor their forensics are. Unless they bring someone in, say from Goslin, it's possible they won't find him. But informants are everywhere, and if either of them have something to say in the wrong place..."

"Well, you know my kid's been pretty good so far. This other fellow, I don't know. He's mad with grief."

The host stands by the door. "Perhaps we should move him out. Give him a route. Or even... lose him."

The visitor glares across the table. "The kid wants help. He's already taken some steps himself. Good steps, actually. I'll accept no talk about losing anyone. But the kid, maybe he'd let us ship the fellow out. And don't forget, soon we're going to want to bring the kid in. I don't think you want to alienate him."

The woman nods decisively. "Then let's see about a route."

Lan peers through darkened goggles at the melt. He looks up and nods to Oloron, who pours it carefully into a shallow open mold. He strips away the goggles and frowns. "Well, now we wait."

Oloron nods heavily, watching as the metal cools.

Inwardly, Lan relaxes slightly. At least this part of his plan is working. But he knows there is much more to be done.

Taskov taps at Lan's door. Once, twice... then he hears a movement.

Lan opens the door a crack. "Oh. What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you."

Lan eyes him carefully. Finally, "All right."

Taskov scans the room. "Where's Oloron?"

"I sent him home to take care of some things."

Taskov looks dubious. "They could be watching his apartment."

Lan sits on the arm of his lone chair. "They're not. I checked."

"What, you think because you can't see them they're not watching?"

Lan colors, but restrains his anger. "I think the best thing is for him to act reasonably normal. He can stay here for a few more days on the basis of... what happened. But he's going to want clothes, and that sort of thing. I walked by, looked for what I could. It's on the way to the food store, so I picked up some groceries, and walked back. I didn't see anything odd, and he wanted to give it a try."

Taskov nods. "Well, at least you're paying some attention." He paces the room, pausing by the window and peering down at the street. "Still, this is a problem. It's possible they'll find him, now or later. If they find out you're his friend, they're going to start asking questions about your papers and past that this little tale is not going to be able to withstand."

"Aren't you tired of just crouching behind a wall, Franck?"

"Tired?" Taskov whirls on him. "Of course I'm tired. But have you any idea of what they'll do to us if we're caught? This isn't minor political stuff any more, which means mandatory torture and extraction for information on confederates. Have you ever seen anyone who had that happen to them? I have. I'm not going through it."

"Then maybe you need to consider moving off, because I'm starting to get an idea of what I want to do, and samizdat isn't going to be the limit of it."

"Is that supposed to be comforting, or menacing, kid?"

"Do you call me 'kid' just to ignore my ideas? I'm almost thirty."

"Maybe so." He looks out the window. "But you haven't seen half of what I have."

"Maybe, but I'm learning. And one thing I'm learning is that there are a few things I can do. One is to write. That's fine, but I don't know enough history to make it work. There's more to reversing this revolution than angry polemic. What we're missing is a moral foundation. And I think, to have that, I need more history. I need to know where we went wrong. Because without that, the other half of my idea is going to be a real problem."

Taskov circles back to the chair. "And what is the other half?"

Lan reaches into the jacket beside him and brings out his pistol.

"Oh great," Taskov snaps, recoiling.

"It's not quite what you think. Look at us all, cowering out here, afraid of the Council. Except for the sailors, and damn few of them, not a one of us can protect ourselves." He pops out the cylinder, then pushes it back in. "This isn't that complicated. We can make them."

"What are you talking about?"

"The foundry. I've gotten Legrange to let me do some experiments with alloys. I've managed to get enough equipment that I can make most of the parts for a simple weapon. The new alloy that Oloron and I made yesterday is fine enough for most of the parts and hard enough for the barrel. I think. I hope. We'll need better molds, probably, and ammunition's a problem, but it's a start." He frowns. "If we're successful with making weapons, we'll only unleash something bloody and dangerous. We have to start with history, understand how we've gotten here. Find the mistakes and plan against them. Create something, a document that anyone can understand, give the counter-revolution its basic principles. Something that can keep us from destroying ourselves."

Taskov shakes his head. "I was wrong. You're endangering everything."

Lan stands and paces. He stops and glares. "I don't understand you. You ran away, but any mention of real defiance, defiance that might irrevocably change things, you won't accept. What are you afraid of? Are you afraid of making the choice? Deciding to change, and having to follow through? What is it?"

"I'm afraid of what you might do to us. Or what any of the other hotheads might do to us. We're barely holding on to our organization. If we cause trouble, if there's a crackdown, it will be the end of us. The end of resistance, of haven - don't you see? Nowhere to go. For us, for anyone."

The sun is casting the orange sheets of light through the windows, and Taskov's face looks suddenly blind and shadowed in the glare.

But Lan does understand. Because what Taskov is saying had kept him, for so long, silent. Even when his book had been banned, his samizdat publication had been a feeble resistance - enough to make him feel he was preserving something, not a real, open act of defiance. Had they all been trapped by a fear of wrecking their lives? Had they been so afraid that they would risk the death of everything for a few more years of comparative peace?

It is a step toward the understanding he needs.

He steps forward, and clasps Taskov's shoulders tightly. "Franck, listen to me. I'm scared too. I've been scared. They rely on it. They make it a fertile ground, but they let us find the seed and make it grow. It's time to stop."

"And when they crush us, nothing's left. I can't help you with this."

Lan's hands drop to his side. "At least let me meet with someone from the resistance. Please. Let me try. Maybe they're stronger than you think. Maybe they don't tell you everything. Even if my plan isn't the end, maybe it can be a part of whatever's in progress. Please, Franck."

Taskov is silent. Suddenly his hand wipes his face, then he removes his glasses - his eyes are penetrating, even in silhouette, and they flick from feature to feature of Lan's face, as if seeking some confirmation, some sign. "Listen, things aren't that simple. I think you need to get a better sense of the situation. Maybe it's time to get things started and bring you in. But if I do this, I want you to sit there, be silent, and watch for a while. As for your project, you have to keep it discreet, and make sure there will be no more trouble from Oloron. If that happens, sometime in the next couple of weeks, I'll arrange a meeting. Then, afterward, you and I can talk about this again. Agreed?"

Lan nods sadly. He is not sure if he is not more afraid now than he had been when it was just a dream.

Oloron is difficult to control. When they are not working, he sulks in the chair by the window. Lan tries not to be angry. And he tries to turn Oloron's interest to the project. But it isn't easy.

"I'm still afraid to let him go home. Maybe a week. I think he's still afraid, too."

They speak in low voices by the door. Taskov peers through the glare on his lenses, looking at Oloron where he sits across the room.

"I think you should come down to the newsreel with me."

"I hate that stuff. You know that."

"This time, you need to see it."

"Looks like you've been skimping on your requirements, brother."

Taskov is in rough mode, glasses hidden away. "Yeah, yeah, just punch my ticket, OK?"

Lan steps through behind him, and they are wrapped in the darkness of the theater.

The restless crowd of the compelled can be heard, but not seen, as they, mostly neighbors, chatter, prepared to ignore anything but their own hopeless lives.

The giant screen lights with the symbol of the Leadership Council, as Taskov pulls Lan to sit beside him. The chair and floor feel slightly tacky with the years of spills and sweat.

"This is the third run," Taskov whispers. "I used my alternate card to get back in, this time."

"Welcome, citizens," the screen announces, in the person of a uniformed announcer. Then, accompanied by light music, he discusses industrial triumphs of the regime. Lan sinks back into his seat, knowing how false it all is.

At about the middle of the newsreel, however, he is torn from his boredom.

"This was the scene as an maniac showed his hostility to the social order, setting off a bomb outside the Transportation Board offices in Ieanneau." The scene changes to patrollers examining the debris. "Fortunately, none of our indispensable office workers were harmed by this inept action, and thanks to the quick response of the Local Patrol, valuable evidence pointing to the identity of the dangerous criminal was quickly obtained."

Lan stirs uneasily.

The scene changes to the outside of an apartment building. "It was only a matter of time before the perpetrator was found and arrested." Patrollers are shown escorting someone Lan fails to recognize. The scene changes to a firing squad, and a blindfolded man slumps to the pavement in total silence. Some of the audience slap thighs in applause. Lan's mouth contorts with disgust.

"Another enemy of the people was dealt with in a recent space battle. In these previously unreleased records, renegade spacecraft designer Clu Sherril is attacking elements of Orbital Fleet 12 with a stolen vehicle from the Goslin Yards." A phalanx of missiles stretches out into the distance. Lan's hands clench the arms, and he nearly rises, held only by Taskov's hand on his wrist. A grainy image shows the magnified destruction of a spacecraft in slow motion. "As with all criminals, this traitor was quickly given to justice."

Lan slumps forward, his hands rubbing his eyes. He can barely hear the newsreel continuing through a story about a special program for the homeless. Then it closes with the usual announcement: "Remember, the Leadership Council needs your selfless service to the social order. With your help, our Boards and Local Councils can make sure that we attain a world without want."

"Look, we know they didn't catch Oloron. And I don't know any better than you, kid, if they're making it up about your wife. But we keep hearing the same thing."

Breeze ruffles his hair, and Lan can hardly see. "They're lying," he insists.

Taskov pulls Lan's arm and they turn down an alley shortcut to home. "Maybe," he replies. "It also doesn't mean they're not going to be looking for Oloron. We still have to be careful."

Lan glares at the pile of parts on the narrow table. He looks over at Oloron, who sits slumped by the window.

"This isn't working," Lan mutters.

Oloron looks over and shrugs. "I could have told you it. It's too complicated."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, we just can't make a revolver from scratch in a foundry. We need parts that we can't get or make. Springs, alone..."

"You think I can't see that? You know how many times I've taken my revolver apart and put it back together? But I don't know enough to invent one from scratch."

Oloron drags the chair over to the table.

"Trouble is, we need something simpler."

Lan eyes him skeptically. "You have something in mind?"

"Maybe." He picks up a cartridge. "Seems to me this is the problem, right here. I won't say it isn't a better design than my idea, but it's the root of our trouble."

"How?"

"Look, the whole point of all of these parts is to rotate the cylinder, and move the cartridge into a position where the hammer can strike the base of it, which sets off the primer and the powder. The force blows off the projectile, and the cartridge stays here, where it has to be moved out of the way for the next launch. Well, that's what I call it, anyway."

"Go on."

"All we're doing is launching a little metal rocket. But don't you think it's a little strange to leave the engine behind?"

Lan starts to feel the pulse of excitement that arrives with an approach to a solution.

"So what you're saying to me is that we should invert the problem, and we'll make things simpler."

"Sure."

"All right, so we need to launch a little rocket, arrange it so we don't get burned, and get the next one ready for launch in a minimum amount of time. The gun has to be cheap to make, strong enough to withstand a reasonable number of firings, and the ammunition has to be cheap and easy to make."

Oloron grins. "Exactly. And it isn't that hard. Cardboard cylinder like a model engine for the cartridge. Keep the barrel, sure - compression and containment, but we don't use a hammer. The problem is that we'll need to have an igniter that doesn't use much power. People can't lug around a battery. Maybe an electric match, or thermicord... that's going to be hard to get, and hard to reliably connect."

"Sure! Sure! But we can figure this out."

Their eyes meet over the table.

"I think this has some possibilities."

He awakens, and reaches out for her. But she is not beside him.

Legrange beckons Lan into his office. "Listen," he says, fiddling with the papers on his desk, too restless to sit down, "I can't tell you how to live your life, but you ought to know that the local ombudsman was by, asking about your low attendance at local Council support meetings." He looks up, glances around. "Maybe you don't like the crap that goes on there, but would you please go, so I can stop having to worry about them pulling you out of here and sending you to the ruby mines? I need you to keep training these guys on the new mix."

Lan frowns. "OK. Sorry."

He starts out through the door when the power flickers and dies. Then after almost a half minute of standing immobile in darkness it is back on, and the furnace is moaning.

"We got a problem!" someone yells.

The building is filled with sandbags, like a maze.

Oloron notices Lan's startled expression. "Listen, if you're going to work with explosives, you have to be prepared for things to blow up."

"What is this place?"

"Used to be a firework factory. Not much of that left any more. Except all of the propellants and such they kept in the cellar. What do you think?"

"How'd you find it?"

"My father worked here. I didn't know anything, not really, but I stole a few rockets, snuck down to the beach and launched them. A couple blew up on the ground. Started a fire." He holds up his hand so Lan can see the purplish scar down one side to the wrist. "Made him decide to teach me how to do things right." He laughs, perhaps a little wildly.

Lan lays a hand on his arm. "Good idea. I hope you've never had anything blow up in here."

Oloron shakes his massive head slowly. "Not yet," he rumbles.

"So now what?"

"Come over here." Oloron gestures to a corner of the room. He pulls a jumpsuit from the wall and thrusts it into Lan's arms. "Put that on." The suit is stiff and padded with layers of cardboard, and an improvised hood dangles from its shoulders.

"What's this for?"

"You want to learn more about this, right?"

"Yeah."

"First lesson - protect yourself. Otherwise this stuff will blow up, and you'll be missing an arm, a hand, or an eye."

Lan eyes the suit with respect. "Good idea."

The warehouse is a vast concrete cylinder, empty and echoic. Grey light slants through the ring of windows and from skylights set into the metal roof. Raindrops can be heard hammering on the metal and plastic.

Lan cradles the crude pistol of wood and metal, looking down its length at a panel set up against an empty machine mounting. He glances at Oloron. "Ready?" he asks.

"As ready as we can be."

They slip the battered safety glasses down over their eyes.

Lan slides the gun into an improvised cradle and slips the wire over the trigger. He cocks the hammer to the load position and slips in the rocket. They crouch back at some distance, and Lan hands the trigger wire to Oloron.

"You do it," he insists.

Oloron grins and nods. "Here we go." He turns away and pulls the wire.

Lan watches as the hammer slides home and a hidden spark slips from the battery to the engine. There is a brief pop, and only a slight spurt of smoke from the hammer, the rest streaming from the tube that leads from the breech and curves forward. Then a surprising boom, a moment after the center of the plywood disintegrates under the impact of a fractional amount of iron driven at over two hundred miles an hour.

They exchange shocked glances as the plywood dust billows.

"You suppose we can do that again?"

But that night, as Lan eats a cold dinner of long beans and psykip, the glow of success fades and he realizes that what he has made is intended to be used on people, not wood. He stirs uneasily, realizing that he has neglected the other half of his mission, and that he cannot fail in that part - or he will unleash something that will bring bloody chaos, not protection.

Taskov has made a habit of walking down to the docks after work, where he sits looking over the harbor at the flocks of sea insects, smoking a hand rolled cigarette. Occasionally he strikes up a conversation with the other pensioners and sailors. Then he returns to the apartment. Today is the same, except as he watches a tanker crawling toward the harbor exit, a woman in rough clothes takes a seat on the piling next to his. She offers him a cigarette. He lights it and hers.

"They've tested a prototype," Taskov tells her.

"And?"

"I haven't seen it. Lan tells me it did plywood." He draws from the cigarette, but the flavor is bitter. He releases the smoke almost immediately.

"We can't let this get out of control," she sighs.

"Then we have to find a way to bring him in."

She shakes her head. "Upstairs is resisting. They hear the Board incident is still being pursued. It may end up in your neighborhood. They don't need the exposure. It's a nutcase idea, anyway. This would just heat things up. The only reason we get so many people out is because they don't care as much. They don't see a danger. No one wants that to change right now."

Taskov nods. "I know. I feel the same way. But we have to move."

The woman frowns and stands. "Bring him here next week. I'll talk to him. Let's see if we can stall."

Lan paces the room angrily. He slaps the window frame. Sweat trickles down his neck, but the flush in his face is not from the heat.

"All right," Oloron snaps, following Lan's motion back and forth, "so they don't want to help us. It doesn't mean we can't keep working. What are they going to do, turn us in?"

Lan stops and stares. "No. No, damn it, you're right. We'll keep working."

There is a dark party starting on the roof as the last chip of the sun winks out and the street pylons light with a sporadic cold blue. But the heat is the intense last burst of summer.

Amid the flaming clouds float a few early hydrogen tree pods, following the wind. Lan rests his hands behind him on the edge of the roof, staring at the slowly moving pods. From the city below him rises music, broadcast and recorded - the last vestiges of private entertainment made public.

He drinks and the light sips from the edges of the sky until there are only stars. The people swirl around him, but he is alone until Taskov stops beside him. "I'm sorry," Taskov says, leaning over the rail, looking down into the street. "I tried." Lan shrugs. "You never liked this idea, anyway. You don't have to lie about it."

The power below flickers and dies, taking with it the music and light.

The partygoers rush to the edge of the roof. But it is only a short time until the confused shouting below takes on the tenor of anger. People begin to gather in the street like trickles that gather into turbulence and then streams. Lan can hear a speaker below trying to get the attention of the crowd.

"Listen! Listen! How many more times are we going to let them do this! They take our cars, our televisions, our sons and daughters! How many more times! We should do something! Let's go to the Electricity Board! Let's show them what we think!"

His last words are almost lost in the roar of the crowd. Then, with a strange jostling turbulence, it begins to move.

Taskov lights a cigarette and whips out the flame from the match. For a moment he stands silently, then, he flicks the dead match over the edge of the roof.

"So, you think it's a good idea to give them guns, kid?"

Lan is watching, his face unreadable in the darkness. "You suppose it's going to be better because they don't have guns?"

In the distance they can hear sirens, the slow beat of large motors, and finally, the faint crack of small arms fire.