Source: Consolidation

The truck rumbles in the darkness -the boiler releasing an occasional plume - and the metal pings, but it is quiet enough that Lan slips away from time to time, staring out past his faint reflection into the dark beyond.

As he draws closer to Goslin, there is occasional traffic, mostly government-labeled long haulers that thrust past with their high-powered internal combustion engines. He feels conspicuous, and tugs his steam truck into the slow traffic lane. He tries to puzzle out the map and drive at the same time, but finally reaches over to shake Puri. "Puri, Puri... I need you to work the map for me."

The boy shakes himself awake and stares at Lan for a moment. Finally, he takes the map and fiddles with it. "You're doing all right. Three ramps down, we need to get off."

Dawn leaks down from the clouds into the alley and Lan stirs from uncomfortable and restless sleep. He looks across the seat to where Puri sits playing with the map. "mmm.. Sorry. Needed the sleep."

Puri shrugs. "Found the place on the map. The docks, anyway. Ready to go?"

There are several false starts. Lan finds his memory is unreliable, so he relies on representing himself and Puri as drivers looking for Pierre's company to make a delivery. Of course, he has no idea of Pierre's real name, his company, or anything else. But the references eventually lead to a decaying railyard backed with piers and cranes, and an office in a domed structure beyond a thickwire gate.

Lan parks for a long while as the shadows break out and rehide with the movement of the clouds. Puri watches him but says nothing, Finally, Lan straightens. "See you in a little while. If anything goes wrong, get out as fast as you can."

The distance to the gate seems long, with intermittent shadows stretching from the thickwire past his feet. His mind races with the strategy alternatives he has rehearsed. Once again, he wishes he had Oloron in the truck behind him rather than a boy - smart but inexperienced and incapable. But the reasoning that left him here alone hasn't changed. For a moment, he can see Oloron and the others driving carefully to the airbase.

They'll be pretty close by now, he thinks.

The gate creaks open and then hangs behind him. He ruffs his hand through his hair, suddenly feeling uncertain. But he steps through the door solidly and climbs the musty stairwell to the office.

Voices pass through the door to him and he pushes through. And for a moment he is in a shock of recognition, because he has found what he is looking for.

But he keeps to his part, waiting as the conversations winds its way to a destination, looking around at the government slogan posters on the wall, absorbing the kinds of work that seem to be occupying the staff. Finally, the conversation ends, and he steps forward to pick it up. "Excuse me, brother," he breaks in. Pierre turns to face him, but there is no recognition. "What?"

"We have a special delivery for you outside. Can I get you to look it over and sign off?"

Pierre raises an eyebrow, but there is something that he seems to barely remember. "I'm not expecting anything. This is for me, personally?'

"It is."

"Pierre Vaustal."

"That's right."

Pierre scrutinizes him, eyes squinting above his thick beard. "All right, let's have a look."

Outside in the yard, Pierre grabs his arm and turns him around. His voice is suddenly rough. "So what is this? I know everything we're expecting here. You don't have anything I'm expecting."

Lan takes a deep breath. "Don't I look familiar?"

"Should you?" Pierre's eyes are deeply narrowed as the sun washes his face.

"I should. I came though here about a year ago."

Pierre becomes quiet and reflects. "The mathematician."

Then it is Lan's turn to be taken aback. He doesn't think of himself as a mathematician. The realization unsettles him in a moment that is not for anyone else to see.

"Yes."

Pierre's eyes flick back and forth, and he snarls, "You're not supposed to be here. You're not supposed to ever come back. This is completely wrong. What do you want?"

"Help."

"What kind of help?"

Lan does not look anywhere except at Pierre. "Maybe you've heard there's been some trouble with prisoner transport in the south. I am that trouble."

"If you're on the run, without connections in the resistance, you're poison to me and what's left of my company. I can't afford trouble."

"I'm not on the run. The people I've helped are wiith me. We need some connections with the outside. " That is the opening story. The less than completely fightening story. The completely truthful but incomplete story of where things would go for the next month or so. "Trading for supplies, and we make things to sell. You can help us, and make a profit, too."

Pierre snorts. "I'm mystified why you'd think I'd want to be involved in the black market."

"I think you don't need to ask that question. I know you want to help. You helped me a year ago." Of course, he didn't know if this was the case, but he had thought through the alternatives and decided a little projected wishful thinking couldn't hurt if he needed.

But Pierre is distrustful. "I can't help you." He starts to turn away, but there is hesitation in his movement. Lan tries again. "Pierre, we need your help. If you change your mind, I'll meet you down the street, in the alley between your dock and Faisal's, tomorrow at noon. I'll wait for two hours. Please."

Pierre eyes him thoughtfully, but finally yanks his eyes back to the yard and walks off. Lan turns quickly and heads for the gate, angry with himself and Pierre. Angry at himself for pleading and at Pierre for ignoring the reality of the plea. And frightened at the finality of the gate latching behind him.

"How did it go?" Puri asks eagerly

But Lan is in a dark mood and unwilling to respond easily. He sits silently in the front of the truck staring at the gate and the office. Finally, he looks art Puri, whose face is innocent and eager and he has to respond. "Tomorrow. We'll see tomorrow."

The soft rain on the cab softens their resolve as they watch the alley from across the street.

"You think it's the rain?" Puri asks again. "Maybe he just doesn't want to go out in the rain."

"I don't know," Lan admits. "What time do you have?"

Puri looks at the map. "Five more minutes."

Another truck rumbles past, loaded with spools of thick cable. A few cloaked and hooded figures walk past with no great energy, huddled into themselves against the rain. The rain becomes a little harder.

Lan struggles into his cloak. "I'll be back soon."

"Can't I come?"

Lan thinks about this for a moment, and finally agrees. After all, what would Puri do if something goes wrong, anyway?

They step out to the end of the street, where the rounded edge of the building gives way to the sidewalk and its lighting pylons. The sky is darkening, and some of them flicker to life.

"So, you were smart, after all," a voice rumbles beside him. Lan doesn't move, but a thrill of combined eagerness and fear runs through him like a shock to the heart. He turns his head and feels the rainwater slide down the left of his hood. To his right, a cloaked figure stands, anonymous behind its own hood, with a dark scarf adding even more obscurity.

"That depends," Lan replies, his heart pounding deeply enough to leave him with only just enough air to speak quietly.

The voice behind the hood takes on a lilt that Lan remembers from a year ago. "Depends on the deal we're going to make. No point in standing out here getting wet, especially since there's nothing at all happening over in that alley."

Sunlight streams through the high grid of patchy windows onto a bare floor, littered with boxes and metal parts - all covered with dust.

But in the middle of the floor is something else.

A complex thing of metal, almost insectile in form, matted with dust and debris, windows opaque, shadows the floor.

"That," Lan observes, "is an amazing piece of luck. I thought we were lucky before." His voice is soft and faintly echoed in the vast space.

Oloron looks bland. "It doesn't run."

"And if it did, we probably don't have anyone who could fly it."

Oloron nods and replies, "We don't have anybody who could fly it. But if we could find someone?"

Lan shakes his head, putting the thought to one side for later. "I don't know. Needs thinking about. How are we doing with getting the generators looked at?"

"Elise says they seem to be internal combustion, but she's not done yet. Nuclear would have been better, we have some experience there."

"Then we probably have to find a way to get fuel anyway."

"That's right."

"Maybe Pierre can help."

"Maybe he can help with more than that..."

"I'm looking for someone who has some technical experience with aviation," Lan replies, sitting on the edge of Pierre's desk, casually looking out over the slowly moving cranes and ships beyond. There are piles of snow everywhere.

Pierre leans back in his old chair, with the late sunlight streaming amber over his shoulders. "I'm not quite following this. Why?"

"Does it matter?"

Pierre leans forward and eyes him skeptically from under thick dark brows, threaded with grey. "I'm just wondering where I'm helping someone relocate to. Trade is one thing, recruiting is something else. It requires more trust. The people I help trust me. I have to be sure I can trust what I'm telling them."

Lan looks down at his hand on the desk and worries for a moment. Until now, everything has been discreet and profitable; he feels a sudden sea change. The words slip out... "Maybe this wasn't a good idea." He starts to stand with the momentum of his words.

"As you like," Pierre replies, but his expression is reflective, his fingers tapping on the desk. Suddenly, he sighs. "This is a difficult business we're in," he continues. "I... wish it weren't so difficult." He stands and leans forward, hands on the table. "I don't like asking you to trust me. If these were normal days, I'd have you to my house to meet my wife. We'd sit on the porch and talk business. But that's not the way of things. Anymore."

Lan's face heats for a moment, and he struggles with his next words. "Maybe not. But maybe we have a special relationship." Pierre seems taken aback, about to retort angrily, until Lan raises a hand. "Can you be away for a few days? I have something to show you."

It is a dark cold night when they arrive, the steam truck hissing and smoking at the corner of the airfield.

Lan reaches over and shakes Pierre's shoulder. "OK, Pierre. We've arrived. Bundle up, it's cold."

Outside, it is quiet and there is only the sound of footfalls on concrete as a dark figure approaches, silhouetted by the lights of the distant buildings. The figure is bundled in dark, warm clothing and is cradling an obvious long weapon. It stops beside Lan, as Pierre looks on, gathering his senses. He hears the brief exchange.

"How does it look?" Lan asks.

"Nothing close. Overhead pass in about twenty minutes, so we'd like to get the truck under."

Lan nods and gestures toward the truck. "We'll walk. Thanks." He raises his voice. "Pierre, come with me."

The small building beside the truck has a door that Lan pulls open in a brilliant fan of light. "Ah, she's gotten the generators to work," he remarks. Behind them is the sound of the truck starting to move and an odd rumbling sound.

The inside of the room is cold foamed stone. Lan opens a metal door on one side, revealing a flight of stairs, a large flashlight beside the railing. But the stairs are well lit, and Lan leads the way down into a long grey corridor, lined with a complexity of multicolored pipes of various sizes and colors, flat lit by a narrow strip along the ceiling. "If Elise were here, she'd go on and on about the low power electroluminescent crystal panels, and tell you all about how they work."

Pierre shakes his head, trying to keep up with Lan's long legged stride. Between just coming awake and the sudden progression from a dark field to an industrial complex, he feels as if he were still dreaming.

They arrive at a cross corridor, much wider. A few of the panels are out, casting bands of shadow that only emphasize the length and straightness of the tunnel in both directions. The pipes migrate from the side corridor walls to the ceiling and the walls are punctuated by doors of various sizes. Across the tunnel is a low platform on wheels, with a woman sitting on the floor, reading a stack of papers. The woman looks up and smiles. "Elise sent me out to save you the walk. Hey, check this out - " she holds up the papers, " - we found a ton of stories in the systems and they got the printers running."

Lan grins at Pierre. "Every time I come back, there's something new going on." He turns back to the woman. "Thanks, Julienne. Great news. I can't wait to read again. It's been ages. This is Pierre."

"Julienne," she nods to Pierre. "Why don't you guys get on the platform, and we'll head back to the terminal. I swear I can drive this. I've practiced for two days!"

The window of the control center is darkened and the field below is black, but the stars of the cluster are crusting the sky past the edge of the forest. Lan smiles.

"We turn out the exterior lights for most of the night to avoid the orbital platforms we know about. I imagine if they end up really looking they may see some heat signature here, but really, we're mostly underground and we just don't radiate much yet anyway. It would take a lot of work to tell this was our heat, versus heat from the runways catching sun."

Pierre is still feeling slightly disoriented. But he understands. "I appreciate you having me to your home for dinner." He smiles. "Having me here must be a significant risk for you."

Lan's face is faint in the star-lit darkness of the room. "Yes. I want you to know that I'm serious in needing your help. And that you have a place with us, if you need it."

"You're armed." Pierre states, flatly. "or you couldn't have done what you said."

"Yes."

Pierre tries to smile, but it is obvious he is frightened. "The resistance doesn't fight like that."

Lan shakes his head. "You've got it wrong,"

Pierre looks away and then back."How's that?"

"The resistance. They resist. They don't fight. We're fighting." Lan stands up and opens the door. "Come on. I'll show you something."

The room is filled with printed sheets in neat stacks. Two or three people are folding and taping, and they smile as Lan and Pierre step through the door, then turn back to their work, and their quiet conversation.

"This is the first part of what we're doing. Writing, printing, distributing."

"Who's writing?" Pierre asks.

"I'm writing some of it. We have a couple of others here, including an economist, who write some. And we take material we find and reprint it. We do philosophy, news, whatever we can."

"You have an economist?"

"We found him in our second rescue. He had some unpopular ideas about free markets. Now he's helping us have a small economy within the complex. We even have an accountant teaching some of us, though... he's away for the moment."

"How do you get these out?" Pierre is lifting some of the sheets and reading them.

"We have some teenagers who don't mind the risk; some of them were real hell-raisers. They slip the items into newsprint, menus, kiosks for government information services."

"They may not mind the risk, but what about you?"

"Not too many of us really know where the complex is located. We use the ones who do as drivers. And we do our operations in locations pretty far away. It's not perfect, but it's workable. And people are hearing it. See this one?" he lifts one from a pile at the corner of a table. "Someone in Goslin wrote this after seeing one of ours. He has some different ideas, pretty interesting. Wish we knew who he was. But we can reprint him even if we can't find him yet."

"You wrote this?" Pierre asked, holding up another sheet. Lan flushes slightly.

"Well, yes."

"Hm."

"Come on, there's more to see..."

The next room is some distance away, and has a heavy sliding metal door. Lan uses a key on a lock and then pulls at a huge lever that extends from the bottom. A complex mechanism disengages and the door rolls back with a roar.

The room behind is momentarily dark, but then the rows of lightstrips flicker to life, revealing several racks of weapons, probably numbering nearly one hundred.

"Armory," Lan states, voice slightly sharp against the hard walls. "This is probably what scares the resistance the most. But it's critical. We need to defend ourselves. We need to do rescues. Can't do that without weapons."

Pierre looks worried. "Where did you get these?"

Lan seems to delight in Pierre's expression. "The rocket guns are a design I did with a friend. The cartridge weapons.... well, we took them."

Eyes sharp, Pierre quips, "I don't want to know where, do I?"

But Lan is still serious. "I want you to know. You wanted to be trusted, right? So that means you have to know it all." He pauses for effect. "We took them from the armory at Pallen."

"What!"

"That's right."

"But - "

"Does it worry you?"

"Of course it worries me. Can you imagine the attention they're spending on finding you?" He rubs his neck. "I can't believe you got away with it."

"Pierre," Lan replies, grasping the older man's arm, "just think what it means that we did get away with it. It means we can win. I hate to say it, because I don't know how to make it happen yet, but it means we could be able to win militarily."

"It's going to come to that?"

"Did you ever doubt it?"

Pierre rocks slowly, reluctantly back and forth on his feet. "I never thought about it. I thought about what I was doing. I thought about right now. I don't know what it takes to make everything different, but I'm not thinking it's easy.

Lan nods. "The whole resistance is infected with it. They held on to what they could, and when they had a little bit, they weren't willing to think further, or to take the risk that comes next. Me? I don't have anything to lose. The people here don't have anything to lose. Out there, they're prisoners or dead. In here, they have a corner of normalcy, and maybe a little bit of hope. It's not a bad thing, is it?"

"No, not a bad thing." But his brow is still furrowed.

Lan's office is on the first floow, looking out across the field. It has low lamps on the desk casting limited pools of light that glow upward to illuminate faces. Lan pours some water from a container into two glasses, smiles and raises the glass.

"You don't know how long I've hoped to be able to be here, with you, talking about what we could make happen. I've been grateful to you for a long time."

Pierre sighs and then raises his glass. "It seems to be a good thing, though it's scaring me. I'm impressed by what you've done. I wonder what you think is next."

Lan settles back in his chair and bows his head slightly. "The idea of doing more than resisting frightens everyone. It's easy to go along, to let things go. Probably for more than half of everyone, things seem... not better, but not so bad that it's worth doing something about, assuming you knew what to do. It's all so far away. We were kids when everything changed. It's been this way most of our lives. Our parents may remembver freedom, and the way it felt when things were getting better every day, but we don't. People now just remember today and a little of yesterday, and a tiny amount of the day before. And most of them just want the most they can get for the least trouble. Freedom is a lot of trouble, every day, and getting it back is a risk. A big risk.

"But, you know, they kidnapped me, just because I wanted to publish my work and be known for what I had done. They killed my wife when she tried to save me. Their ideas about collectivising everything and putting the 'know-nothings' in charge killed my friend's pregnant wife and their first child. There's a cause and effect here that he and I see, and that the people here see, because we've been mixed into it. A cause and effect we're getting ready to do something about."

Pierre leans forward and puts his glass on the edge of the desk. "And what do you have in mind to do about it?"

Lan waits for a moment. Though his face is impassive and angular in the light reflected from the desk, he knows this is the crux of the conversation. Wild statements could drive Pierre away. Too much could jepoardize their plans. Too little could keep Pierre from seeing a role that was possible.

"We need to continue to build our capabilities. We have developed enough to be able to accomplish much of what we need to do, but how will we sustain it across the length of time and the scale of the geography we have to cover. It's one thing to lay the seeds of doubt, but we need to create and manage bases. We need to bring in more and more people and organize them. The amount of effort involved in keeping these people focused, on planning, on making sure we have food and tools and consumables... establishing secret trades with the outside and safely rolling them up - these are all hard and we need people, smart people, people willing to take chances, to make it happen."

Pierre nods, with a slight smile. "And when you have enough of this, and you are everywhere you need to be, then you will take over."

Lan is stung and he jerks forward to slap the desk. "No! We're not looking to unseat the Council so we can do the same damn thing again. We're looking to remove the Council, reestablish the Republic, and put in place a government that does what's needed to secure freedom and not a damn thing more." Then he recoils from his own speech and cools quickly. He tries to assess Pierre as his emotions drop back into the controllable range. "I'm sorry," he continues. "I shouldn't have shouted."

But Pierre is looking at him oddly, his eyes slightly widened, his furrows of concern flattened and slipping away into his slab sided face.

"I understand, now," he replies, finally.

"Do you?" Lan asks, his voice still faintly hot, but controlled.

"Yes, and I want to help. I've been waiting for this, for a long time. Thank you. Tell me what I can do, and if I can do it, I will."