Revolution in the Underground (26 page)

             
“You can stay,” Styles relented, “but don’t go beyond that couch.”  Sven, pretending not to listen, approached Ember with the bag of ice.  Ember winced as the cold, wet, plastic kissed his tender face.  “Luna, sterilize the mortar and pestle and prepare the incubator and centrifuge,” Styles continued.

***

              Emotions ran high for another half hour after, but eventually the inexorable prowl of ennui won out, as it always does.  With Luna by his side, Styles carefully added various reagents, and subsequently mashed, incubated, and spun down the tissue samples.

A few hours and many meandering thoughts later, Kara suggested that they make use of the remaining stem, from which the leaves had already been removed for tissue harvesting.  She proposed that they wipe the stem against a concealed part of their skin, such as their abdomens, to test for a reaction.  Her theory, as she presented it to Styles, was that it would: one, further ensure that the plant is poison ivy; and two, be useful in convincing others that they had the code.

To everyone’s surprise, Styles agreed.  They took turns wiping a small piece of the stem against their skin, but only Kara and Sven developed rashes.  Maggie and Ember, both of whom had been effectively immunized to it by years of exposure, showed little more than a red flush.  Luna and Styles showed no visible signs of a reaction.  Styles seemed satisfied with the results but said nothing about it.

Ember, still exhausted from physical trauma, spent the next few hours drifting in and out of sleep.  Sven sat cross-legged on the ground, while Maggie and Kara sat on top of the arms of the sofa, near Ember’s head and feet, respectively, though Kara would, in intervals, sit on top of Ember’s feet instead.

“Tomorrow, at noon,” Sven began, “we—meaning, Kara, Maggie, Ember and I—will have to go to Bradbury’s trial.  It would be suspicious if we don’t go.”

“Plus we have to make sure that they don’t do something stupid,” Kara added.

“Like what?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know… Invade Imperium without weapons,” Kara said.

Sven smirked, “Or with weapons.”  Sven paused and looked at Styles, who was busy trying to amplify the DNA with his manual thermocycler.  “Can we trust that you’ll be here when we come back?”

“I don’t know, can you?” he retorted.

Kara sighed.  “Will you be here when we come back tomorrow?”

             
“Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your lives… or the beginning of the last days of your life.  Either way, I won’t want to miss it.”

             
“Well, that’s cryptic,” she said. 

             
“What’s the itinerary for tomorrow,” Sven asked.

             
“It depends…”

             
“We’re almost done with the amplification.  How long will the sequencing take,” Luna inquired.

             
“
Toxicodendron radicans
genome is probably on the order of a billion base pairs.  If the computer analyzes at about twenty-five thousand base pairs per second, then we should finish in about twelve hours, or just before they come back from the trial.  I might, however, be able to speed up the process significantly if I tweak the algorithm.”

             
“What
are
you?” Maggie asked unexpectedly.  Styles fell silent.  “It’s okay, I know you’re not like us.  I won’t judge you.  I just want to know, for my own curiosity…”  Kara and Sven were at full attention.  Even Ember, who was presently resting his eyes, was listening intently.

             
Styles handed Luna some chemical, and then, with his back still turned to everyone else, spoke matter-of-factly.  “I was genetically engineered.”

             
Kara and Sven gasped.  Ember opened his eyes.  “What does that mean?” Maggie asked.

             
“It means that I am in every way superior to you.”

             
Maggie, unsatisfied with his answer, opened her mouth to seek clarification but Kara cut her short.  “I’ll tell you later,” Kara said, hushing Maggie so that she could ask her own question.  “From what generation?”

             
“I’ve been here from the beginning…  Which is to say, before the construction of the Underground…  I was held in suspended animation—that is until, of course, George freed me about twenty-five years ago.”

             
“So you age like the rest of us?” Kara asked.

             
“As far as I can tell.”

             
“You don’t remember anything from before?”

             
“No.”

             
“So you were made by the engineers?” Luna asked with a sense of awe.

             
“I suppose so.  It’s not that big of a deal actually.”

             
“And no one found you for four-hundred and seventy five years?” Sven asked, expressing his simultaneous suspicion and disbelief through tone.

             
“It would appear so.”

             
“Maybe you are like some sort of guardian—are their any others like you?!” Kara questioned, cutting off her own thought.

             
“Not that I know of.”

             
“Were you an altered template or were you synthesized from scratch?”

             
“Now, why would I care?”  Luna looked up at Styles admiringly.

             
“Because…  Uhh…” Kara stumbled.  “Doesn’t it affect your view of… well… your own identity.”
              “I am who I am regardless of how I was made or where I came from.  I live for no one else but myself.”

             
“But… does it bother you that you weren’t… natural?”

             
“And what is natural?!” he said with a touch of annoyance.  “I suppose you are natural?  Well, if that’s the case, I’d prefer to be un-natural!  Indeed, it is regrettable that we even belong to the same species!”

             
“I’m sorry,” Kara said quietly, “I was just wondering… I was just—”

             
“That you see my creation as artificial is the precise reason why I didn’t want to tell you in the first place!”

             
“Come on Styles, she was just—” Sven began in a defensive tone.

             
“You don’t understand.  You won’t
ever
understand.”

             
There was a long pause.  “But… I’m trying to,” Kara said in a whisper.

             
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Styles snapped.  “Quiet!  All of you!” he shouted, waving his arm while turning round to face them.  “Luna, commence the sequencing.”

             
They began the sequencing about half past midnight.  The instant that Styles placed the sample in the analyzer, he exhaled an audible sigh of relief.  From that moment on, sleepiness seemed to fill the room.  First came silence, then lethargy of motion, and finally an indomitable drowsiness.

             
Ember, who had yet to move since being placed on the couch, was the first to fall asleep.  Kara and Maggie tried unsuccessfully for the first half an hour to find a comfortable positions along the cold ground before ultimately deciding to snuggle together.  Sven reclined uncomfortably with his back against the couch and fell into a light slumber.  Even Styles, who was, for reasons no one could quite understand, resting his head on Luna’s lap, had fallen asleep.  Only Luna remained wide-awake.  She sat cross-legged in front of the laptop, pouring over the sequence as it zipped across the screen, occasionally running her fingers through Styles’ silky hair but not once stopping to turn her head.

***

              When Sven awoke, all was how he last saw it.  He looked down at Kara and Maggie’s angelic bodies.  Kara’s nose was pressed against the nape of Maggie’s neck, and though they both had crossed their arms around their own chests, their legs were bent inward together as in a half-fetal position.  Sven considered the dangerous journey ahead of them, and, probably for the hundredth time, was overcome by the maddening thought that he would die without professing his love for Kara.  Though the thought had come to him many times before, its reality never seemed as real and as imminent as it did now.  He looked at Kara’s gentle face once more, but before he could grow envious of Maggie—or perhaps,
because
he was growing envious of Maggie—he stood up.

             
He looked down on Ember, who was snoring softly.  The right side of his face was still swollen from the day before, but Sven was relieved to see that the inflammation hadn’t grown appreciably larger.  Styles, who still rested his head lazily on Luna’s lap, crossed his arms and turned his head slowly in Sven’s direction.  Sven stared back at him, but didn’t say anything.  Luna brought her finger to her mouth to bite, but did not break her glare at the computer screen.  Sven stretched silently and then quietly climbed upstairs.

             
For the next two and a half hours, he talked dramatically with his mother.  Mrs. Helsinki was firm in her belief that Sven should abandon the cause and travel with her to the North.  Though she did not know the specifics of their plan, she sensed the danger that awaited them, and did not want to leave without them.  Each recollection and each nostalgic anecdote brought tears to her eyes, and before long even Sven was crying. 

             
Initially Sven had planned on lying to his mother—promising that he would join her in the North but embarking instead for Imperium—but he could not get himself to do it without looking away.  He explained instead how his involvement was essential for the liberation of the Underground, and how this one singular action gave his life meaning.  Strangely enough, it wasn’t the consideration of all the souls imprisoned within the Underground that made the greatest impact on Mrs. Helsinki, but rather Sven’s confession of his love for Kara.  He explained how he couldn’t leave Kara alone on the final phase of the mission and how he could never forgive himself if something should happen to her.

             
Mrs. Helsinki tried in vain to convince him to take Kara with him to the North.  She begged him to re-consider and even suggested that he could find another love elsewhere.  In the end, however, his heart was resolute.  She gave her son a wet kiss on the cheek and then, in-between sobs, said, “We will see each other on the other side.  You will always be my little Sveny.”

It wasn’t until Sven walked down the basement steps that he considered the ambiguity of her words.  It was with a heavy heart that he woke Maggie, Kara and Ember.

“Wake up, it’s time to go,” he said glumly.

Maggie sat up and yawned discreetly.  She looked at Styles and Luna and asked, “Will you be done by the time we get back?”

“We should be done in one to three hours,” Luna reported, without looking away from the screen.

Styles, who was pacing back and forth, stopped to declare cryptically, “You better get going.”

“Are you feeling up to it?” Kara asked Ember.

He stroked his tender cheek and closed his right eye as he winced.  “Ya, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m really sorry about that,” Sven apologized again.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ember said, wincing once more from the pain, “It was an accident.”

“Yes, it was accident.”

***

So many revolutionaries were present at the assembly that no one had noticed when they slipped in.  The tone of the meeting was considerably darker than normal.  Gone was the quiet sanguinity and overflowing camaraderie of the past, and in its stead was a pervading gloom.   Even the sideward mutterings and random interruptions were dismal and defeated.  Noble words and sincere inquiries felt dead and forced.

“And where is he now?” an angry man shouted.

“He is constrained in a secure place,” said the judicious looking man from the previous day.  “Now we must decide what to do with him.”

An elderly woman with long wispy white hair stood up.  “I have seen many things throughout my lifetime…  I have witnessed several trials before… but this… this… is a situation that, for better or for worse, the Buffer Zone is most terribly ill prepared to deal with.”

“What?!”

“Are you kidding?!”

“Kill the man!”

“He killed my brother!”

“Quiet!” the judicious looking man said, raising his hand out to calm the crowd.  “Let her speak.”

“Whatever it is that you decide,” she continued, “please make sure you do it for the right reasons.”

“And what do you suppose those reasons are?!” bellowed an angry fellow from the back.

“It all depends on what you wish to accomplish.  Justice has many arms.  There are, of course, the issues of punishment and penance, closure and resolution.  Then there is the issue of society—which is to say the process is inextricably linked to incentive structures.  And lastly, there is the consideration of rehabilitation.  First we must contemplate the matter of guilt.” 

“The man reeks of guilt!”

“He admitted it himself yesterday… we were all there.”

“Confessions under stress,” she said wisely, “aren’t always the most reliable.”

“We checked his apartment,” the judicious looking man explained, “there were stockpiles of explosive material all around it.”

“If,” the old woman continued, “we decide that he is guilty, we must then decide what to do with him.  Capital punishment should be based off not only the severity of the crime but also the preponderance of the evidence.  He has taken at least eight lives with his actions, and it appears as though there is considerable evidence against him.”

“Kill the man!”

“But by what moral authority would we act?  In what sense can murder ever be justified?” she questioned.

“Let him experience what he did to others!”

“Kill him!”

“I’m afraid killing him won’t bring us closure.  His death will not bring back our loved ones.  If we kill him, are we any better than him?  Is it up to us to carry out justice’s merciless punishment?  Is there any intrinsic value that can be gained through penalty?  Through reprimand?  How is it that the victims benefit?  Perhaps it is a net-zero gain for all internal parties, but, as I’m sure someone will soon suggest, there lies a third party—society.”

“He must be punished to deter subsequent dissent.”

“The issue of deterrence, however, is predicated on the belief that cause and effect, crime and punishment, are unequivocally perceived by the masses—a prospect which I would contend to be dubious considering the present state of the Buffer Zone.  A public execution risks sending the wrong message, while a quiet one risks sending none at all.  If we are to believe, as I have just argued, that there is no inherent value to punishment, then a quiet sentencing would be supremely irrational.”

“We could, imprison him,” suggested a stout, podgy man.

“Yes, we could do that, but I’m afraid that in the absence of known laws and regulations, it would be as difficult to define an external party from which justification can be derived.  Then there is, of course, the matter of what exactly we are deterring.  Surely dissent cannot be our reason.”

“What about treason?!”

“His actions… his beliefs… were all consistent with his motive which in turn was aligned with the greater good of the cause.  As labored as his reasoning may be, it was with, theoretically at least, good intentions.”

“How dare you?!”
              “He killed my brother!”

“Let her finish!”

“Alternatively, we could attempt to find a way to use Bradbury.  Assuming his heart is still aligned with the cause, he might yet be willing to take on a risky mission or at the very least contribute to the movement in some way.  Is his body not more useful among the ranks of our soldiers than in the lonely ropes of the gallows?  Should someone be imprisoned if he can still contribute positively to society?  Are we to ignore the past?  To what time period do we owe our loyalty?  The past, present or future?”

“Why don’t we rehabilitate him?”

“What is rehabilitation but sanctioned brainwashing?  Would it not be a spiritual death of character and belief?  Philosophical conformity?  Would we be any better than the government minders in Imperium and Auctoritas?  Denial of physical reality, perversions of analytic truth, are they really all that different than forced manipulations of one’s own philosophy?”

“The woman talks but offers no solutions!” complained one revolutionary.

“There are no easy solutions,” she said plainly.  “I only wish to inform you of the difficulties that lie ahead.  If we wish to establish a better world outside the Underground, these are questions we must be prepared to answer.”

“Perhaps we should also consider the possibility that he didn’t act alone,” the judicious looking man suggested.  This prospect caused some unrest among the gathering, which just then broke into chaotic shouts.

It was Daryl who brought them back to order.  “We shall launch an internal investigation.  Until then, and until we decide exactly what to do with Bradbury, we should keep him locked up.”  These words seemed to placate the masses.  “For now, we have the more pressing matter of the revolution.  As you all know, it is time to decide…  If we are to invade Imperium, as I have suggested, we must act within the next few days.  You have all had time to think about your answers…”

“Actually Daryl, we have already discussed it and we have agreed instead on my proposal,” an influential but quiet revolutionary said, rising to his feet. “We will first send a contingency into Imperium with concealed weapons to inspire the masses.  Twenty-four hours later we will bomb the central gate as a diversion, but flank them from the east and south gates instead.  The first wave will meet up with the contingency and the commoners while our siege units further fracture their walls along the perimeter, preparing for a larger, multi-front invasion.”

“The precise military details,” came one of the man’s comrades, “are of course flexible, but as far as the general plan of attack, we believe this to be far more tactically sound.”

“Daryl is right, the time to strike is now… but we shall do it bearing arms!  And if we go down, we will go down in a fiery blaze of glory!”

“We will shatter Imperium’s delusion!”

“The people will join us in arms!  They will fight against tyranny!  Against despotism!”

“But—” Daryl started.

“They won’t know what hit ‘em, right Daryl?!”

“Uh… I suppose…”

“So you’re with us?!”

“Uhh…” he said hesitantly… “we’ll need another week to accumulate the munitions.”

“Actually, it’s already been taken care of.  Everyone is poised to launch the day after tomorrow.”

“You have all agreed upon this?” Daryl asked with a confusion befitting a conspiracy.

“That we have my friend.  So what do you say?  You in?”

Daryl stood up, and declared proudly, “I’m in!”

Ember, Sven, Kara, and Maggie stirred in their seats.  Ember could not understand the tone by which they talked. 
How is it,
he thought,
that they can converse with such optimism?!  They speak as if the trials that lay ahead are someone else’s.  How can they be so detached?  Is such the quality of man and woman?  The displacement of mind from body? The disconnect between past planning, present actions, and future consequences?  How easily such profound decisions are made!  How quickly men and women will risk their own lives, and how hastily they will take another’s!  What strange creatures we are!  But I do not know their plight.  I have not felt their anguish…  I have not weathered their storm…  It is not my place.  Yet, I do not understand how they talk… valiantly… proudly… but almost indifferently… like ghosts before death, separated by the world in front of them by the gravity of their planned deeds!  Waiting… Anticipating… But never fully realizing… Never fully contemplating… A sacrifice so noble… so tragic… but so quick and arbitrary… should be respected or scorned? Do they not know that their lives are on the line?!  Do they not realize how failure would mean certain death?