EXILE

Stein woke by himself. Still, he had little idea of what the time, or even the date was. What he did know was that since being returned to his cell from the interview room, he had had delivered and collected some twelve meal trays. He had slept eight times, but he was certain that most of those were short rests, and that the time since his door was last open was about six, maybe seven days. Not long for the average remand prisoner. He could reasonably expect to be alone, fed and almost warm, for many times that long. It was with surprise, then, that he saw the locking lights on his door flash off, an instant before it slid open. The guard sauntered in, a heavy-set, jowly man with shorn hair, cauliflower ears, and a neck that had been swallowed up by a mass of muscle and beer-induced fat.

Stein stood up, still blinking in the flood of light that invaded his room from the grey hall outside. The guard already had his handcuffs in hand, open. Without saying anything beyond a grunt, he grabbed Stein’s arm with a heavy, square hand and slipped one of the cuffs over the lean wrist. With a surprisingly fluid movement, the guard twisted Stein around and clamped his other wrist, joining them behind his back. Following the guard, Stein left his cell, making the familiar journey down to the elevator. He moved stiffly, his body responding woodenly to the signals sent from his brain. Although much of his numbness was directly due to his lack of exercise in the small cell, there was a certain amount of re-orientation needed between his physical brain and mental mind. Reuniting the two had been more difficult than before - although his mind, his consciousness and its memories had been spared the onslaught of the sonic torture, he had been separated from his physical self, and he had had much work to do to rebuild the bridges that had been torn apart. Perhaps that was why his sleep had been so erratic. Anyway, he had spent much of the time since then teaching himself how to move again. Fortunately, he had literally found his feet before this latest summons. Hopefully, he thought, this wouldn’t be as mutually futile as the last outing. The last that he had heard before leaving the interview to return to his cell was Steadman telling someone, probably an unknown witness, to scrub the interview from the record. Stein had won that last round, but at a price that he may not be able to pay a second time.

The guard pushed him roughly into the elevator, and entered after Stein, pushing the button that would take him down to the first floor as he walked through the door. Stein noted their destination with interest. He hadn’t been there since his trial, and wasn’t likely to go there again unless he had either a trial, a visitor, or both. Considering the brevity of his spells in isolation, he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been both. He had the impression already that the CSA were hardly dragging their heels on his case. They had been working on his case for months without knowing that he was in front of the narrow window that the CSA had on the Freedom Movement. That annoying, fateful window that was the same shape and size of that damned pile of papers that he had been forced to abandon.

The meeting was supposed to have been secret, and he was certain that it had been. However, despite the secrecy, anyone with the right knowledge would have pieced together enough to suggest when and where the meeting was to be held. As it turned out, Stein thought ruefully, that person happened to be a CSA mole in a minor cell. That they had managed to escape was testimony to the Movement’s internal security measures, but in the very act of abandoning the documents Abe had knowingly sealed his own fate, and for that reason he had insisted on leading the assassination field group on what may very well become a suicide mission. What had always troubled him about the whole secret, tangled web was that he had been unable to tell anyone that he was close to, in all of the years that he had been in the Movement. And as the guard moved him down the hallway behind the court rooms into the visitors room at the end, and sat him down on the pivoting stool in a vacant booth, Stein found himself face to face with one of those people.

“Hello, love.”

“Hello to you.” Rebecca Stein leaned forward. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what, Becky?” Stein leaned forward onto his elbows. “I went on a walking weekend, the same as I’ve been doing for months. Next thing I know, the CSA goons kick down the door and haul me off. Okay, so I forgot my i.d. You know about that, I suppose.”

“Yes, Abe.” Rebecca brushed back some fine black curls from her delicately sculpted face. “Paul told me everything. But, the Freedom Movement, Abe?”

“Not guilty, Becky. Where would I even find the time? You know how the business has taken off.” Which, in truth, it had. Mainly thanks to other Freedom Movement members, who considered Abe to be their architect of choice when their businesses needed such service. All part of the Movement’s mutual support and diversion practices.

“Really? I mean, I don’t mean to doubt you, Abe. But after what Paul told me, I do begin to wonder.”

“About what?” Stein knew perfectly well that this conversation was being recorded. He wasn’t sure whether Becky knew, though.

“About the Freedom Movement, silly.” Stein looked closely at his wife. She had a stressed look about her, and her eyes looked scared. That unsettled Stein. Rebecca was one of the least likely people to be scared by anything. Someone must have got a hold on her, and scared her badly.

“How’ve you been, anyway, Becky?” Change of tack.

“So-so. I’m coping. Jamie has been taking up your workload. The business hasn’t suffered.”

“Good. Look, as soon as I’m out of here, I’ll make it up to you, okay? And I’ll never leave my i.d. home again. Promise.”

“It’s more serious than that. The CSA are certain.”

“Really? When has a lost i.d. sent anyone down hard?”

“Never, Abe. But this isn’t just lost i.d., is it?” She looked terrified, and more than once glanced behind her, as if she was being watched.

“Look, Becky. As far as I’m concerned, the CSA can go jump, and don’t you feel pressured by it.” A spark of knowledge leapt across her olive features, confirming what Abe had suspected - the CSA were using her to squeeze a confession from Abe. “Has anyone seen you?”

“Yes. A couple of friends.” She tensed. He was right.

“Becky, my trial is probably quite soon. Try and put all of this behind you. I can’t really say any more. I wish that I could, but I can’t. Do you understand?”

“But, Abe...”

“No buts. No-one has anything on you, so stay clean.”

“But, Abe, why?”

“Why not?”

“I love you, Abe Stein.” Becky stood up, and looked at Abe one las time, her eyes filling with tears. Abe reached forward, and touched his fingers to the glass. Becky smiled briefly, and turning, left. Abe sat quietly for a moment, watching the retreating back of his wife, knowing full well that it would be the last that they would ever see of each other.

Abe was one of the rare breed of individuals who would put their moral conscious above all else, including their family, and even their own lives. He had long prepared for this turn of events. The expectation was the real driving force behind him taking on Jamie Green as a junior in his business, and involving Rebecca in the management of it - when the time came, as it had, then Becky would be secure, and with Jamie on board the business would not fail. Other Movement cell members had purposefully boosted his business’ workload, so justifying Jamie’s contract had been simple enough. Now, with only memories of his life before, Abe realised that the guard was not pulling him out of the visiting booth. There must be another visitor - but who?

Stein was not kept wondering for long, as he instantly recognised one of the public visitors who entered the room. Tall and skeletal, George Antunovich was a hard man to miss in any setting. Stein watched him, as he looked up the row of booths, comparing their numbers with that printed on the visitor’s card in his hand. Recognition stopped his search, and he crossed the room with a few stretched paces of his long, angular legs. Stein watched all of this impassively, raising an eyebrow in greeting. Nothing else was necessary, and George merely nodded slightly in reply, not even bothering to take off his dark glasses as he shoe-horned himself into the confines of the booth. The trouble for Abe was, who was George today? It was risky enough talking to Becky, but talking to one of the six leaders of the Freedom Movement was another thing altogether. He would have to think fast.

“Who are you?” Stein had the tone of a total stranger.

“Ian Smithers-Jones, the Tribune.” George flashed one of many fake i.d.s that he had at his disposal. High quality fakes, complete with the retinal records of the holder. As far as the CSA entry computer was concerned, George Antunovich, research chemist and ballistics expert was today Ian Smithers-Jones, journalist. Or whoever else he chose to be.

“I have nothing to say to the press.”

“That’s all very well, Mister Stein. But your brothers have approached me to speak to you.” Stein had two blood brothers, but the Movement was just as much a family to him.

“Really? And what do they have to say for themselves?”

“Well, Abe - may I call you Abe? Thanks. Well, naturally, they’re very sorry to see you arrested by the CSA.”

“Ditto.”

“Anyway, their work keeps them from coming here in person. They hope that you’d understand.”

“Yeah, well, they always were too busy for their kid brother. How is their work going? I understand they were busy on some projects.”

George leant back and took a crumpled box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Without taking his eyes off Stein, he flicked it open with his thumb, sliding a cigarette upwards as he did so. He raised the box to his mouth, catching the smoke in his lips. Pocketing the box, he took a book of matches from his pocket - true to form, it had the Tribune’s crest printed on the cardboard cover, conveniently exposed for the security camera to see. Tearing off a match, he lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply as he did so.

“Yes. I’ve been covering some of their projects for the Tribune. Just tracking them, really, in case any of them become newsworthy.”

“So, have any come to anything worth your rag’s precious inches?”

“As it happens, one project was finished a couple of weeks ago. They would have liked to have told you themselves, but it seems that you had just gotten yourself arrested.”

“Was that Herb’s demolition project?”

“That’s the one. A tidy little number.”

“Really? Any casualties?”

“No. Everyone is safe and well.” George didn’t even smile - he played cool, detached very well. His survival depended upon it.

“What about the other projects - anything else on the drawing board?”

“Nothing yet. Your brothers are still assessing their resources.’

“Would they like some advice? Business-wise, that is.”

“I can’t see why not.”

“Tell them that the days of small piddling jobs are over. If the Firm is to survive, then they need to go for the big picture. Tell them to pool their resources and make a single, powerful statement, something that will grab attention. What this place needs is a new building, not the renovated hulks of days gone by.”

“Are you talking urban renewal, Mister Architect?”

“Nothing less. Do you think that they can deliver?”

“Certainly. After all, I’ve been covering this story for a long time, now.”

“Good. Any other news?”

“No, but I’ll be covering your trial.”

“Ah. Do you know when it is scheduled?”

“Tomorrow, actually. It seems as if their backlog has miraculously disappeared.”

“Isn’t that the way?”

“Yup. Anyway, must dash. Thanks for your time, Abe.” George pushed himself back, freeing his legs from the booth. He awkwardly stood up, flicking a curt wave at Abe, and, smiling ever so slightly, strode across the room and out into the hallway. Before he was gone, Stein was prodded in the small of his back by the guard, who from the look of him had a barely concealed urge to use his truncheon a tad more solidly than he was expected to.

Stein stood up, and was again prodded by the stick-happy guard, who grunted something to Stein. He didn’t hear what was actually said to him, but he understood it clear enough. He left the booth, seeing out of the corner of his eye another prisoner being escorted to his still-warm seat. Business is brisk, he thought. As he was marched towards the door at the far end of the room, he got a good look at the static parade of prisoners and their visitors. Many were overly emotional with their partners, girlfriends, mothers, children. Some were downright angry, others resigned, much as Stein had been. All of the prisoners were bound by a common thread - their very presence in CSA custody was a confirmation of their sentences to come. No-one escaped the CSA’s perfect record. No-one walked, and none should talk, yet they did, some freely.

Outside, in the hallway, was a different world altogether. Silent except for the variously shuffled and solid footfalls of prisoners, guards and lawyers, no-one spoke, nor showed any emotion. Although the passage of Stein and his guard was outwardly silent but for their steps, breaths and the ubiquitous rustle of their mutually standard-issue uniforms, the inside of Stein’s head was clamorous with his thoughts, plans and regrets.

Since he had first been approached and invited to join the Freedom Movement, he had led a double life, and of conflicting priorities. Increasingly, his wife had lost that conflict. If she had ever asked why, he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly how, but he wouldn’t need to - she knew him well enough to understand perfectly, without actually knowing anything. He had always been concerned about other people, and had fretted, privately, about the growing power of the ruling committee, and the stranglehold that they developed over the world’s population, despite the nominal local and regional governments.

Some conservative idealists had supported the political manoeuvring that created a planet-wide dictatorship, holding it up as the communist ideal of “one planet, one people”. Bullshit. If there was anyone who enjoyed living as a part of a police state that no political boundaries surrounded, Stein had yet to meet one. The appearance and development of the Freedom Movement had caused all of Abe’s feelings and conscience to coalesce - if there was any way that he could help to bring down the committee and their grip on the Earth, then that would have priority over his life. Why should he live comfortably, safely, toeing the party line, all for the sake of his own skin, when he could in some way give the Earth back to its people, to help to restore true democracy? Since his recruitment, his life had had but one purpose, and his public life became just a tool, a front to cover and serve his secret life, that which was dedicated to pulling down the existing regime.

It had been established very early on in the Movement’s life that the destruction of the committee was always the easy part - the apparently successful mission at the new spaceport had proved that, with the assassination of a few of the ruling committee members outright. As with every other power struggle in the past, the problem had been what would replace the old? What would be sucked in to fill the power vacuum? With the existing hierarchy, the immediate deputies would step in. Much of the Movement’s work, then, had been on two main projects. First, the death of the committee, their deputies and their deputies, two levels down, as a minimum. Working from the other direction, Movement members would work their ways into the committee’s supporting organisation, what had been the administrative body of the now-superseded United Nations.

The Movement people who entered the administration would then work their way up the hierarchy, until the reached the assigned ceiling. Stein knew, as did Antunovich, that the execution of the final plan could be actioned virtually any time, and it was as a matter of testing the water that the spaceport job had been organised, in order to test the response of the committee and the CSA. With Stein arrested, there was the risk that all of the agents could be exposed, ruining years of work towards freedom. Stein entered his cell confident in the knowledge that whatever happened to him from now on, the wheels of the first valid attempt at liberating the Earth’s people had been set in motion, and could not now be stopped. Only how it would end, nobody knew.