Chapter 22: Racing Down All Forks In The Road With Reckless Speed

The breeze is a cold shiver on the face as they crouch in the tall dry fronds beside the road. For the fifteenth time, Lan checks his weapon, and then looks along the pavement with the sort of bitter frown that once would have been reserved for a department rival standing in the way of getting some interesting data.

He recalls explaining the plan, and the reasoning.

"Can't we do it at night?" Taskov asks.

"No," Lan replies, surprised.

"Why not?"

"Because we can't afford to be shooting at each other. We don't want any accidents. This is dangerous enough. Besides, they're more alert at night. They're going to figure that there's more danger of escapes, they'll be watching the perimeter. But in the daylight..."

In the daylight, the trucks are rumbling slowly by, with the usual linked chains of prisoners, the stench of poorly burned alcohol and petroleum, and the breeze-borne smell of unwashed bodies. Now in concert with the sound of tires and shuffling feet and dragging chains, his heart rises to crescendo. The time to act? Not yet... not yet. The long guns of the guards are crossing the air above.

"The assault starts when the lead truck gets to the front of our line. Shots fired into the boiler, just like last time." His eyes gather the others with a shared experience. "If it works once, it can keep working, right?"

The concussion is a dull tone like the sound of an enormous copper drum, followed by the shriek of steam as the lead to a second concussion and the rupture of the lead tank. Steam erupts in a billow, and a plate that had flown up into the air clanks onto the road; another flies into the distance, vanishing among the fronds. A scalded guard at the front screams, and they run back toward Lan's position at the center. Lan looks to Oloron, who grins a wild baring of teeth below his mustache.

"We step up at this point in the center and split them into two parts. The last two in line step out and take the guards at the rear."

Lan stares at the oncoming rush from the front and the back. That it is all part of the plan is little comfort, though having Oloron at his back is.

He raises his weapon.

"They have to be disarmed as quickly as possible. While that happens, the second six head for the trucks to disarm and capture the drivers."

The faces of the oncoming guards resolve from blur to surprise as they see confident men standing ahead of them, weapons levelled.

"Down on the ground," Lan cries, almost synchronized with Oloron behind him.

They had practiced on their own truck... again and again. They had simulated problems, deaths, every problem that they could think of. And each time, the failures were discussed, the men and women worked harder, bonded more closely, became more ready.

"Let go of your weapons, or we'll shoot. Now!"

The face in front of him is confused, terrified, eyes white all the way around a pale blue iris, the skin blotched, the mouth a raw wound. The hand is white knuckled around the stock of the weapon and anything can happen. Lan finds himself not breathing, but the metal edge of the trigger is a neutral line across the crook of his finger. The man ahead of him starts to recoil, pushing slowly back against those behind him - but it isn't really slow, and there is the hiss of a sandbag, the awful thwop of impact... somewhere behind and to the right. But he can't look, because he has only moments to confront this man... this young man, nearly a boy.

The man stops drops his weapon clattering to the road, only ten feet distant. A sudden surge of power and terror, and Lan screams "Down on the ground! Face down! Now!" He steps forward, menacing, and the guard throws himself to the road, head buried in his arms, only his brown hair showing.

Lan supervises the capture and binding of the guards. Suddenly, there is some excitement in the distance, and moments later Oloron is clasping his shoulder.

"What?" Lan snaps.

"You'd better come see this."

Lan looks over the situation and gestures to Dirolio. "Keep them under control."

At the back of the second truck, Oloron gestures up at the cargo compartment.

"Well?" Lan asks.

"Kids," Oloron replies. And indeed, the bars at the back of the compartment are jammed with dirty pleading children, hands extended. Lan's stomach lurches. "Get them out." His voice is weak and he steps back slightly.

"I won't bring children into this," Lan retorts. "What hope do they have, when everything is corrupted? How could I do that?"

He does not allow himself to see Clu's face. Somewhere beyond the range of his vision, he knows that her mouth is loose at the center with sadness, hard at the edges with anger and determination.

"And if we don't, what kind of children will there be? What kind of world are you expecting them to make? I want to give you a son or daughter to learn from you, from me. I don't want to give up on them. I want a world for them. Don't you?"

He kneels beside where she sits huddled. "Look, I want it, too. But just not now. Maybe in a few years, when things get better. Please, be patient. The time will come. Trust me."

The wreckage is cleared from the road, and the working truck tows the damaged truck toward the mountains and the sea beyond. Behind, their original truck follows. The sun is lowering, and blue shadows stretch out behind the trucks, roiling in the dust, smoke and steam. Lan sits beside Oloron as they drive, eyes narrow against the glare, exhausted, occasionally yawning without conviction.

Stopped beside a stream, they lead the blindfolded prisoners out among the remnant hydrogen trees and the more populous conifers, and they stop far from the road. Lan stands by as the prisoners are warned that weapons are trained on them, and as the chains are released. They are spun around, for disorientation. A scuffle breaks out, quickly subdued in a rush of dried leaves and fronds.

Lan drags the offender to his feet. "Listen," he hisses. "We could have just killed you. We're letting you go. Don't you understand?"

The guard nods, dejected, hanging loosely. Lan lets go.

"Then get out of here. Next time you may not be so lucky."

The room is large, circular... and crowded with children and adults milling under the harsh lights. At the door, Claire puts her hand on his back. "They need you to say something... to explain."

He feels oddly shy, wishing someone else would do this. Wishing he could be on the roof, watching meteors.

He steps out into the space and for a moment it is very loud and chaotic. Then one of the children notices him. "Look, it's him!" There is a babble of voices and there are children pressed all around his legs, smiling, laughing, babbling. "Hey, hey," he cautions, voice barely able to work. The adults circle the group and everyone is watching.

He clears his throat. "Hello. Welcome to Refuge." Their eyes are so focused that it is unnerving. "I'm Phillippe. We've... set you free, but I hope you realize this doesn't mean you can go home." He is silent for a moment, allowing them to reflect on this. "Not only would it be dangerous for you, but it would be dangerous for us." There is a murmur among the adults. The children are watching with large eyes.

"Please, take responsibility for yourselves by working here at Refuge. Look around, ask around - there are things that need doing. And we have these children. If you are a parent, we'll make sure you can stay together. If there are children without parents, we'd like to have you get to know them, consider a temporary adoption."

The younger children are losing interest, starting to wander.

"As time goes on, you'll learn more about what we're doing here, and you'll be more help, if you want to be. For now, get settled."

There are acknowledgements all around, in head motion and murmurs.

"I'm in the administration building, fourth floor, west side. If you need me, come find me. Philippe."

As he turns away, the voices rise behind him.

"So what do you think?" asks thin, balding Dirolio, face creased with a broad smile.

"I'm sorry, I'm not getting it." Lan replies. "The bread is bad and that makes you happy?"

"Why sure. Don't you see? This is the new product."

Lan is puzzled still and he leans back against the curved brick. "The new product."

"Well, you wanted something to add for trade, and you need to get some doctors to sign up to help, right, then? Well, here we go. This stuff, sure it's just mold. But it's more than that. Didn't they teach you anything about biology in school?"

He gropes for the memory. "Antibiotics."

"That's right. Now, we need to how to safely squeeze it out and package it, but we've got to be able to find that somewhere."

Lan feels a sudden surge of energy. "I like it. I don't know how we can make it work, but we'll find a way. With the quotas, the doctors have always complained that the antibiotics are being watered, so if we can offer an alternative..."

"Maybe we could barter for services."

"And even use the antibiotics ourselves."

The late afternoon light slants through the half-shuttered window as Francois Petit carefully applies a drop of antiseptic soap to his hand and rubs his hands thoroughly, raising as much lather as possible. It is barely enough, but the bottle only has a thin layer at the bottom, and it is the last.

There is a knock at the door. He does not look up. "I'm not seeing any more today."

But it is Dirolio who slips past the barely opened edge of the door. "Hello, Francois."

"Yes, what is it?"

The room is fairly dark except for the shard of lemon light that Dirolio steps through. "We've helped each other out several times, now, haven't we?"

Petit dries his hands carefully on a towel, absently wondering how many germs he was redepositing on his skin. "Yes, I suppose so." He looks up, slightly alarmed as he realizes this could be a problem.

Dirolio sets a small vial on a the table beside the washbasin. "This is," he continues deliberately, "I think, an antibiotic. I'm no biologist or doctor. I don't know how to check. But people I trust have made this, and they believe it is. What I want to know is whether you can check it for me."

Petit folds the towel and places it on the rack. Then he looks at the vial, and back at Dirolio. "Tarl, look, I know things are tough and there's a black market and all of that, but you really shouldn't put hopes in... in, well, who knows what? All of the quota drugs are watered or diluted. Some of them are actually dangerous because of what's been put in them to make them seem to pass muster to the Regulators. Who are," his expression curls into bitterness, "all being paid off anyway." He shakes his head. "Listen to me. Then these people who steal this stuff out of the factories, who knows what they do to make their share." He picks up the vial and eyes it. "It's probably colored water, at best... poison at worst."

Dirolio steps forward and takes his wrist, tightly. "I'm telling you, Francois, I know these people. This is not from a factory. They made it with some kind of mold. Isn't that what some of them start with?"

"That doesn't mean anything."

Dirolio steps a little closer, leaning forward aggressively. "Maybe it doesn't matter to you, but there are sick people who can't even get the quota drugs. If what these people are working on works..."

Petit looks at Dirolio, and then at his hand as Dirolio releases him. "It's not possible," he says, bending slightly and writing hard on a small piece of paper, which he suddenly presses into Dirolio's coat pocket. "Now stop bothering me with this, and go home."

The back street of small houses is outlined with starlight and the webbed shadows of barren trees. A cloaked figure, wrapped against the cold, strides down the empty street and turns into a narrow hedgeway.A knock, and the door splits open briefly. "Just a minute," Francois Petit replies. The door closes briefly, then opens again, and two cloaked figures walk the road.

"I can't talk about illegal things at the office," Petit explains. "I don't trust the staff. This way, even if someone's watching me, they'll just think I'm going on a night call."

Dirolio tries not to appear to be looking around. "Do you really think they're watching?"

Petit shrugs, "I don't know. The Council needs us, but they don't like us, because we're always complaining."

Dirolio grins... "I knew there was a reason I liked you. What about the antibiotic?"

"I'll test it."

Dirolio presses it gratefully into Petit's hand. "Thank you. I'll see you in a week. Is that enough time?"

"It should be."

At the intersection, they go their separate ways.

The night shift is quiet with the distant throb of pumps and turbines as Elise sprawls in a chair in front of the reactor console, a faint grimace on her face. She lifts her knee with her hands and lays her calf across the other thigh. Then she rubs it softly and her expression becomes a little more pained. She lowers it again.

Somewhat later the door opens, and Lan slips in, blocking a breath of cold from outside. He stands huddled a moment, rubbing his hands, and finally straightens and smiles. "A little cold for the roof tonight, isn't it?"

She smiles, but a little weakly, and nods. "True enough, but it's not bad in here."

He senses something and asks. "Everything OK?"

"Oh, it's just my ankle still."

A faint shiver runs through Lan. "Anybody looked at it?"

She shrugs. "Who's to look? It seems all right. I can walk. It just hurts a little. I think it's swelled up a bit. It'll be better soon."

He sits down across from her. "I can't help worrying," he says, quietly. But his voice is tight and nearly cracks at the end. "Everything has gone too well, it's sitting on top of a foundation that's not deep enough. It wouldn't take much to... destroy it."

Elise is quiet, but her eyes search his face carefully. "You're doing what you can."

"But what am I missing? What am I not doing?" Suddenly, his hands are shaking. He tries to stop it, almost succeeds. "I'm trying to think of everything. I know Fran... I mean Laurence is not entirely happy with things. The weather is closing in, the food is running low... and if anyone gets sick or hurt - and it's going to happen, sooner or later..."

The wheels on the chair legs squeak irregularly as she moves toward him. She sets her hand on his. "It's going to be all right."

But he has looked up as if he has been burned, and he pulls his hand from under her. "Yes... somehow it will be. I'm sorry to have unloaded on you. I need to spend more time thinking, less time worrying."

She looks at him earnestly, and shifts her taped glasses lower on her nose so that her sharp green eyes peer over them. "You need to find a way to reduce the burden. You're trying to manage everything, from top to bottom. There's no shame in finding it hard. No shame. But think about it. Isn't there some way to share the burden?"

He shakes his head, unwilling to sense the tears pent up behind his eyes. "How can I be sure? They don't know what I know. What I'm learning."

"So, you don't trust us? You don't think we're smart enough?"

His eyes are wide and glassy. "That's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I... don't really know." He hesitates and leans back in the chair, looking towards her, but his assessment is directed within. "The problem is that I'm learning things I can't really articulate yet. Not well enough. I'm a physicist. My gift is for formulas, for equations, for the match between thought and empirical reality. Not politics. Not really philosophy." He rubs the back of his hand across a cheek that is slowly forming a blond beard again. "You know, when you think of a sun, you have to see it as a system. A system with elements that are smaller than atoms, and elements hundreds of thousands of miles across. Somehow, and, believe me, it's complex, but somehow these elements become organized by their nature. There's no top down force causing them to act as they do, to group or cluster as they do, to transmit their forces one to the other up and down the scale, or across it. And if you tried to direct these forces away from their nature, there are ways, but they work at one level, disrupt at another. I... I'm trying to see this like a society - self-organizing, resistant to imposition. The key in controlling a sun would be to carve out an easier path through state space. To help it, to ease it, so that it flows through state space the way you need it to."

"Philippe," she sighs, "we're not atoms. You can't get us to flow the way you want to. That's not our nature. We're people."

"I know that," he replies patiently. "But I have to look far enough ahead. I have to ease the path. We can't keep living like this. Not just us, but the world. I used to think I could just go on with my studies. I knew more about the sun than I knew about the people around me. I was sure I didn't need to know. If I just did my work, if I just went along with things, we'd be safe. But we weren't, were we?"

She shakes her head, spellbound. "Everyone does that. Before the revolution, who could have seen the currents, the breaking point? People woke up in the morning and did as best they could - they thought everything would go on. And why shouldn't they? Don't we?"

He thinks for a while. "I suppose we do. Maybe I do, too."

"Of course you do. After what you've done, don't you deserve it?"

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Maybe you need a vacation. A break from all this path making. Do some thinking. Find out what you want us to do. Ask us." She looks away. "I want to help."

With a sudden resolve, he grips the arms of the chair. "Maybe so. Maybe that is what I need. I'm going to give it some thought." He stands, and then pauses, uncertain. Finally, "You're a good friend, Elise. I can't talk like this to the others."

She forces herself to look at him. "I know."

He nods, turns to go, turns back. "Thanks," he says, and smiles. The door opens and the cold sweeps in for a moment and then he is gone. Elise carefully releases her hands from the arms of the chair. They are stiff and cramped.

Petit leans over the audiolink, tense. "Well, I know, but... it's still operable. It wouldn't be that difficult for you to find a hole in the schedule."

Beyond the window, the day is new and somewhat coldly lit. He listens.

"Oh, come on, he's not that young, but he's still in good shape. You know if I had the talent, I'd come in and do the procedure."

More listening.

"I've never ... Yes, I told her we could help... Yes, I know what thed Rationing Board is trying to do... Maybe not, but what else could I say? Can't you do anything? Please? ... How long? All right. Well, you know I will, anything I can. All right. Keep me informed." He disconnects and sinks back into his worn fabric chair with a sigh of utter exhaustion. The winter light plays across the tendons on the back of his hand, which twitch briefly and then move into the shadow.

He opens the glass-doored steel cabinet beside the window, carefully removing a set of small covered glass dishes on a tray. Shielding them from the light with his body, he walks back to the desk. Then he inspects each dish, carefully scribing notes into a journal.

It is the first snow of the cold season, with soft flakes roaming down from an overcast. Petit and Dirolio walk through the park, with snow settling sparsely on their shoulders as they speak.

"Then it's as we hoped," Dirolio mutters.

"I suppose so. As I say, it was fairly effective against the common infections. There are a few things I tried that it has no effect on. It's fairly close to monocycline in range of effectiveness." The last is tossed off in an almost conversational fashion, as if he were speaking with a colleague.

Dirolio returns himself to the present from the warm glow of success. "Then it's useful. And if it's useful, maybe there's a way that I can arrange a little barter for you."

They walk in silence for a while, and Dirolio wonders if the next moment will contain his arrest.

Finally, Petit replies... "It might be possible."

Dirolio waits a moment and then exhales warmth into the cold snowy air. "I'll talk to my friends tonight and see what I can arrange."

The darkness is complete, except for a faint upward luminance from a few street pylons. Snow outlines the fractal towers of black foliage that line the roadway. And on the sideway, a hooded figure waits, pacing with some impatience.

In the distance begins a sound like something between a distant wind and a rumble. The pacing figure halts and looks down the roadway. The sound grows and eventually there is a darkened mass barely outlined by the sporadic light of the pylons, moving slowly, smoking and steaming in the cold.

Finally, the steam truck rumbles past the figure, groaning to a halt.

A door opens on the driver side, and a light floods across the upturned face of Dirolio. A hand reaches down and helps him up into the cab, and the light is extinguished with the closing door. The steam truck seems to hunker forward and then begins to roll forward into the night.

And in a deep shadow, a figure stirs, and steps forward. Francois Petit, wrapped in every item of warm clothing he owns, begins to follow the truck.

As he had sat at home that afternoon, knowing what he now knew, Petit had worried. What was he becoming involved with? What if the Monitors became aware of this activity? It sent a cold shudder through his chest to think of the potential for them to have seen him or overheard him. Finally, in a restlessness born of anxiety, he had dressed warmly, and gone out to walk off his energy on the streets of the fringe. And during that walk, he had seen a furtive figure heading out toward the edge, and he had recognized Tarl. Suddenly, with no more thought than that, he had resolved to follow.

Now, as the dawn starts to edge the horizon and the trees, his feet are cold, and the gloved hands in his pockets are moist with the sweat of exertion. The steam truck has gained some distance on him with the advent of hilly terrain. He wishes he had brought his bike, though the thought of trying to get it to move through the snow feels even more arduous than the current process. He steps carefully, trying to minimize energy, and he hopes this will not continue for long.

What had surprised him was the lack of a checkpoint on the edge of the outgoing road. Or rather, the absence of personnel. The truck had simply driven through the darkened checkpoint without slowing, as if they knew it would be empty. Petit had postholed through the woods to the left of the road and the checkpoint building, and, seeing no signs of life, had then quickly loped through the drifts to rejoin the road.

He is hungry, though he had slaked both thirst and hunger to some extent by eating snow, at the penalty of his core temperature. As he walks, the folly of his situation seems to be growing in his mind. How long before he will have to turn back? Why are they going so far? He had thought Tarl lived in town. Who were his friends?

Ahead, the road takes a turn, and Petit forces himself into a shambling run. It is either that or give up.

Petit reaches the curve, but in the dimness, the truck is not visible. But he can still hear the sound. He halts, panting.

There is a motion in the snow not too far to the left. The thin reeds of barren canopa are a scattered backdrop to a figure. Who appears to be leveling a weapon at him.

"I thought it might be you," Tarl states quietly.

The light is lemon, slanting shadows across the snow, and in the background, the steam truck idles. Petit eats swiftly, realizing now how hungry he had become.

Dirolo eyes him sidewise from where he stands at the rear of the truck, watching the road for traffic. "You're not exactly equipped for this."

The other man, huge and muscular, face marked with a large mustache, glares down at him. "I don't think we should be feeding him, I think we should... find a different answer to the problem."

Petit's hand stops halfway to his mouth. "Look, I was just curious."

"For who?" the huge one asks. "The Patrollers? The Monitors?"

"For myself."

"He's a doctor," Dirolio offers.

A large hand reaches down and lifts Petit up by the front of his warm coat. "So?"

"You know what we need."

Grudgingly, never taking his eyes off Petit, Oloron lowers the doctor to his seat. "I suppose. I think we need to have a talk." He looks back to Petit, threatening. "You stay here."

Oloron returns from their conference, and without halting, reaches down and drags Petit to his feet, pulling him stumbling into the woods. It takes a moment for Petit to react and start protesting.

"Shut up," Oloron snaps. He pushes Petit down into the snow. "We don't need you compromising our operation to the other branches of the government. Better you don't go back."

"Wait, you're with the government?"

"Did I say that?"

"Well... no." His face is pale with terror.

"And if I were, would that change your story?"

Petit is terrified, but he is not cowed. "I told you what I told you."

"If you're working for the Monitors, or the Patrollers, I might let you go."

"I told you," he cries, "I'm just a doctor. I wanted to know where he was getting the antibiotic. I didn't mean to cause trouble. I shouldn't have done it. I was curious. I'm sorry. Please, let me go. My patients depend on me."

"So you want to live," Oloron sneers. "You'd say anything."

Petit struggles to his feet. "No I wouldn't! And I've had enough of this. I won't grovel. If you want to kill me, I can't stop you! So, fine, shoot me in the back if you have to." He turns slightly away and walks, slowly at first, then with a gathering speed, toward the road, hands shaking, eyes twitching with fear, waiting to be struck from behind and feel an awful pain. Tears stream down his face as he thinks of never going home again. And anger grasps him as he sees Tarl from the corner of his eye. "I thought we were friends," he snaps, as he keeps walking, waiting.

He doesn't see Oloron and Dirolio share a look. But he does feel a sudden hand on his shoulder and jerks forward as if he had been shot.

"All right, Francois, you've passed the test."

Petit whirls, angry. "What do you mean, test!"

Dirolio holds hands up in mock defense. "We had to be sure. You followed us. It's not safe to be too trusting, my friend. But now you've shown your quality, so we can go on."

Petit's hands are vibrating uncontrollably, and he is shivering. "You bastard."

The silence is the cab is palpable and moody. Petit sits blindfolded in the jump seat, generally confused by the turns and hills, ill-tempered with the blinding, but grateful for the heat and the rest. He can feel the sun move slowly across his face at those rare intervals when they are outside the forests. Then there is an odd sound, a rumbling like resonant wood, some other sound like running water. The sounds move slowly behind them.

The steam truck halts and there are the mechanical sounds of a parking brake being applied. Then the door beside him opens, and the cold whips across his skin. He hears a voice. "OK, step down." A strong hand at his wrist, and then he is being led across an open space, through a door, and inside, into warmth. Slowly, he is led, past bodies and voices, finally into a room. He hears the door close. He waits, uncertain, but then hears footsteps, and Tarl is speaking, "Let me take this off. We're home now."

The blindfold is away, and he blinks at the whiteness until it subsides.

The room is concrete, slightly stained with age. There are two chairs and a desk.

"I'll get you a bed of some kind," Dirolio tells him.

"Where am I?" Petit asks, looking at the unpromising surroundings. "Am I a prisoner?"

"For the moment, yes."

Petit finds something, somewhere, that lets him smile ironically. "At least you're honest."

Dirolio's expression is.. difficult. "There are things we can't tell you yet. Things you can't see, yet. I'm sorry. I like you, but I wish you hadn't done this, that you'd let things happen in their own time. You would have been here, I think, sooner or later. But now there are so many questions. Too many questions. It's going to be a little harder... I need you to wait here; I have people to talk to."

He pauses at the door. "Just one thing?"

"What's that?"

"Does anyone expect you at any particular time today?"

"The office opens at midday for three hours. The nurses..."

"All right."

The door closes behind him.

There are children running and yelling in the hallway. Lan looks up as two of them dash into his office to hide behind the doorframe, chattering and giggling.

"Hey, hey!" he cries. They look at him in sudden silence. Then they exchange looks and laugh, and run back into the hallway. Angrily, Lan stands, tempted to run after them.

A woman is hurrying down the hall, and he shouts at her, "Can't you keep them under control? For a pod in the air, try to get them to play downstairs!" She nods hastily, frightened, and hurries away.

Oloron was apparently right behind her, followed by Taskov and Dirolio, since they enter the room only a moment later. "What's going on?" Oloron asks.

"Damn kids are everywhere," Lan snaps. "I can't seem to concentrate."

Taskov drops into a chair next to the new conference table they had brought back in one of their relatively fruitless searches of the airbase. "You wanted them here."

Lan glares at him, "Maybe you could take more of a hand in this. Weren't you the one who was a schoolteacher?" Suddenly he stops and cocks his head, as if tasting the edge of an idea or of recognition.

But Taskov barks an embarrassed laugh that breaks the thought. "I'm not so good with kids, that's for sure."

"We have a problem," Oloron interrupts.

Lan sighs. He looks over at the desk, frowning. "More problems."

Dirolio looks uncomfortable. "It's my fault."

"Probably," Taskov growls.

"Predictable," Oloron mutters. Then he speaks up. "It's not fault that matters right now. It would have come to this sooner or later."

"Instead of walking around this, why doesn't one of you come to the topic at hand? What problem do we have, and why do I have to deal with it?"

"Dirolio brought something home," Taskov comments. "Or, rather, someone."

"Dr. Petit followed me," Dirolo acknowledges.

Lan stops in mid-movement. "Ah."

"He's here," Oloron continues. "We decided to bring him with us. We... played a trick on him, to try to test him. We knew you wanted a doctor."

"But not yet," Taskov remarks.

There is a sudden lightening of Lan's expression. "A doctor. Petit, you say? And he wants to work with us?"

Dirolio looks particularly uncomfortable. "We... haven't asked, yet. I thought... we thought you should decide. He doesn't know anything yet. Well, not much, anyway. So, if you talk to him, we can blindfold him again, you can see if he could work with us."

"I don't really want to blindfold him," Lan says, leaning back against his desk.

Taskov shakes his head. "You're the most recognizable and well-known of us. It's not a good idea."

"We can't hide ourselves forever from him. I'm not sure I'm going to be able to find out enough to decide without letting him in anyway. We may as well be prepared. He doesn't know where we are - he can't know where we are. And we don't have to give him any information on that for a while." He rubs his jawline, as if tasting something unpleasant. "But Oloron is right. We aren't going to be able to just recruit from prisoners. We have to start making contacts on the outside - finding people who want to help. Otherwise, we're not going to be able to make any kind of changes. And we need to start thinking about that. Chatain keeps asking me about what comes next. I don't have the heart to tell him I don't know."

Taskov sits forward. "What are we planning on? Are we going to form an army? Fight the Leadership Council for control of Cocteau? Don't you see how ludicrous that sounds? For now, they leave us alone. We're too small for them to know about, and if they knew, we might be too small for them to do anything about, anyway."

Lan gives him a warning look, with a side glance to Dirolio.

Dirolio shakes his head. "Nothing is too small for the Leadership Council. I'm with Philippe. Laurence, I understand how you feel. This is all fairly dangerous. But I've been trading in town many times. There is discontent. There are people who are looking for alternatives. I can't approach them explicitly yet, but they're trading with me, even though it would be the camps for them if they were discovered."

Lan's eyes bore into Taskov's, but the reflections from the glasses make it difficult to see what effect it is having. "Laurence, you know we have a mission, and this is part of it. I realize we're all tired of skulking in the bushes, but we have to proceed at a reasonable rate." He pushes off the desk and stands, turning his attention to Dirolio. "I'll talk to him, then. I'll make it work, somehow."

Petit sighs with boredom. Then, amused, he realizes how quickly fear had become boredom, and how ironic that seems.

There is a knock at the door, and he stops his pacing. "Yes?"

The door opens. A lightly built young man, with a shock of dirty gold hair and a developing beard, eyes blue as a winter sky, crosses into the room, closing the door carefully behind.

"So, who are you?" Petit asks, slightly aggrieved.

The young man smiles slightly. "For now, that doesn't matter. Please, sit down, I'm sure you're tired. Some of our people are making lunch, and we'll try to get through this so that you have some time to eat."

"Of course I'm hungry. I should be home by now. I could be home by now. My patients will be wondering where I am."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not - even a conscientious doctor occasionally becomes ill himself. Aside from that, it seems to me that you were actually eager to come here. Otherwise, it's a little hard to explain why you would track our people across the countryside all night."

"I didn't know where they were going."

"And as to why you were following them?"

"I wanted to know where they were going. It was pure chance. I saw Tarl on the street, and I made up my mind without thinking about it too much."

"Apparently not, since you weren't wearing clothes I'd choose for a cross country hike after the first snow of the year." Again the smile, confident, faintly mocking.

"How long are you going to keep me here?" Petit asks, finally taking the offered seat, which forces him to a position where he has to look up at the young man.

"That's up to you. When we're done, you may not want to leave... so you're a doctor. How do you think the Regulators are treating doctors?"

"I follow the rules." Then he weakens. "But things could be better."

"I suppose so, or you wouldn't be willing to purchase black market antibiotics."

Petit throws himself to his feet. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get real antibiotics with the rationing? The hospitals for the officials get the best available, and when I get anything at all, it's probably water."

"But why should you care? You get your home, your office, the perks for being a doctor - it doesn't matter whether you actually help anyone, does it?"

"Oh, of course not," Petit snaps. "To anyone except me. So do you have anything useful to ask?"

Lan pulls up a chair and sits back in it. "No, I think the asking is done. It's time for some basic 'telling'. Let me start with this. We've been responsible for rescuing over a hundred people from the camps. If you have a problem with that, say so now, before I tell you anything more."

Petit settles back. "You're what, twenty five?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not. I'm nearly to fifty. I lived through the revolution after doing pretty well before it. I survived. You think that happens by being idealistic?"

Lan simply watches him.

"Well, it does. You have to last. To last, you have to have some kind of idealism. Be willing to wait. But it's unpleasant. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Lan smiles. "Spell it out for me."

"I'm a doctor. If I give in, there's no one to help my patients. They depend on me, because I loved healing enough to learn how to do it. It's bad enough as it is. Every day, I have to do less than I can. I can't operate, can't save them, because the Rationing Board is choking off the supplies, the OR time, everything I need. So what do I do? Quit? Leave them behind?"

"Apparently not."

"No, apparently not. But when I can help them, I will. So if you can get me antibiotics, I don't care if you're the devil."

"That doesn't sound so idealistic."

"I have my priorities. You apparently have yours. If you can rescue people from the camps, do you think I'm going to hate you for it?"

Lan rubs his neck. "I don't know. Are you?"

"No, of course not. I hate the camps. I hate the whole stinking thing. And if you were the government, you wouldn't need to bring me all the way out here to try to get me to tell you these things. You'd just make me disappear. So that charade back in the woods was nonsense, and this... well, let's get down to the point of it all."

Lan nods. "The point is that we need a doctor. So far, no one here has gotten sick. It's remarkable. But it's not going to last. If there's one thing we'll need, it's going to be a doctor. So if you can help us, we can help you."

Petit suddenly relaxes. This is something he understands, and can believe. "You could have just asked for my help."

Lan smiles and leans forward. "That was coming. If you hadn't followed them... it would have happened much later, when we knew you better, and when you had a chance to know us. Now, we've just had to move things ahead of schedule. Don't hold it against us."

Petit laughs. "I won't."

"Then let's go get a meal."

Petit tucks the stethoscope into the metal box with a longing betrayed by the motion of his hands. He looks up at the older man and smiles. "You're fine." He stands and turns to Lan. "That's all of them?"

Outside, Petit stops Lan with a hand on his shoulder. "These people are not in good health."

The sun is harsh shadow across Lan's face, and the line of his mouth isn't softened by his beard or the faint cloud of his warm words in the icy air. "How bad?"

Petit rubs his forehead and his eyes are narrowed. "Look, they're a little bit worse than the average. Some of them. Some of them are a lot worse. There's malnutrition, vitamin deficiencies, a few infections, some respiratory problems. Some of this will improve with diet, some are going to require that antibiotic you're making... and some, well, there's nothing we can do for them - it's age, or... it's just beyond us now."

Lan looks away for a moment. "Bastards," he breathes.

The late afternoon is crisp and cold. In the lobby, Lan puts a hand on Petit's arm.

"Dr. Petit, I have to ask you to do one thing for me. I need you to wear a blindfold until you're back in town. If you don't know where we are, you won't be a danger to us. I believe you'll keep our secret, but the less you know, the less trouble for you if you fall under suspicion."

Petit smiles. "I doubt you're that worried about me, young man, but I'd rather you were competent. That makes it less likely that you'll get me in trouble."

Lan shakes his head, looks away. "Eventually, you'll get to know me better."

The steam truck roars away toward the bridge in the orange slant of sunlight filtered by end of season leaves and branches. Lan watches it go - hopeful but uncertain. Contrary to his speech, he has no idea how reliable Dr. Petit might be, but there can be no harm in sounding confident, or in generating trust by offering it. He lets the cold wind play across his face, but it doesn't reduce his hopefulness.

He turns toward the building. Taskov sits beside the doorway, the last light of the sun a pool on his glasses, hiding his eyes, as the reflections often do.

"So, you're going to try it."

"Try what?"

"A revolution."

Lan notices Taskov's voice - slurred, slightly unsteady.

"I didn't realize there was liquor here," Lan replies, throat tightening.

"Van Sant's made a still. There isn't much. I thought I'd celebrate. I mean, look how far we've come." His eyes track Lan as Lan crouches beside him. "Now we have a doctor. Soon we'll need one."

"Just what are you talking about?" But he understands. It has been too much for Taskov, running, hiding, trying to build.

"Don't you ever think about it?"

"About what?"

"That man you murdered. The guard."

Lan shakes his head slowly back and forth. "No, I don't."

"You killed him."

"I killed him. I had a choice. He deserved it."

"Lots of people who don't are going to die before you're done." His hand gestures briefly, inconclusively.

"I don't know what you mean."

Taskov pulls down his glasses so that his eyes are visible. "There are three ways to live in this world, kid. I get by. You can fight it, but when you do, they'll crush you. When they do, that doctor, everyone else here, they're going to die. And I'm just as much an idiot. I've been following you, even when I didn't know it. I can't run, though. I'm too tired."

Lan sighs. "You've had too much to drink. Let me help you upstairs." And then Van Sant is going to hear from me. This is the last thing we need.

Francois Petit, once again cold in what is now a slightly biting wind, makes his way through the darkness up the short path to the door of his small home. As he closes the door against the world, looks around at the meager furnishings of his living room and the tiny kitchen beyond, an enormous sense of unreality strikes him. What had been a slow descent into fear was now, somehow, a plummet into a more clearly seen disaster.

He has taken off his coat and now looks at it hanging in his hand like a foreign object of unknown meaning. Slowly and carefully, he hangs it on the peg thrust from the aged and worn closet door. He thrusts his hand in his pocket and encounters a small glass vial of antibiotic, which he raises to the light, squinting through it.

Which, he asks himself, is real?

He slips the vial back into his pocket.

These people are dangerous. If they have their way, the end of this is going to be a war. People I care for will be hurt or killed. I could tell the authorities. I could slow the fall. They might help me and my patients. I could be better off than I am now, get the resources I need.

For a while he stands and his thoughts are roaming nowhere in particular.

Reddish dawn light slants below a thin stratus layer, and the grasses are tinged red. Black suited men prowl the road and push into the grasses to either side.

Above, a vertijet floats, a dark, complex angular insect, held aloft by a trembling roar. And, from its cockpit, beside the pilot, Inspector Guerin's eyes are scanning the ground. His sharp-edged profile catches the light briefly and he shades that side of his face. "What's that?" he asks rhetorically. "Over there, I want you where that flat part is." He gestures.

The report arrives over the radio as he stares downward, "Some kind of plate, sir... Iron, I think, or steel."

"I want that brought out to the road," he announces. "Get help. And hurry."

... The vertijet stands silent behind him, but his expression is anything other than a reflection of the quiet. A breeze stirs his black hair with its faint grey strands. "That's it," he says, finally. His aide, Hildebrandt, a dark skinned man with a shock of pale hair aggressively cropped, steps to his side. "Couldn't have been an accident, not with that the only piece left."

"No," Guerin replies. "Not an accident. And you can bet I'm going to find out who did this."

He looks to the wall of uniforms standing anxiously in front of him. "Start searching. I want to know where those men went, and why."