The Biomass Revolution (The Tisaian Chronicles) (24 page)

He laid the burning cigarette down on the table and folded his hands. A look of seriousness washed over his face
, his smile disappearing in the dim light. 

“You have my sympathies, but
this is a dangerous time. So let’s get to the details quickly, shall we? How about you two tell me what you need and I’ll tell you what I can provide.”

“We need new recruits, at least half a dozen of them, and…” Creo said, hesitating.

“And we need some explosives,” Nathar piped in.

The brightness in Lupai’s eyes seemed to grow with every pass of the loosely dangling light above their booth.

“We need double the explosive
s we bought from you last time,” Nathar continued.

“Ah.” Lupai
said, sitting back in the booth and folding his arms, his eyes studying the two soldiers across from him.

He took a deep breath and leaned back to
wards the table. “Your request comes at a bad time,” he whispered, turning to see if anyone was listening.

“Fear runs rampant in Rohania right now. Those who have sympathized with your cause in the past have lost hope. The CRK has been advertising the attack last week everywhere. They say the TDU is gone, eradicated…” he paused again.

“I don’t know if I can come through with this many men. And the explosives, I can’t sell them to you if I don’t know what they’re going to be used for,” he finished.

Creo
got up from his seat, Nathar quickly following him. “You know we can’t tell you what they’re for, which is why Obi trusted you in the past. If you can’t meet this request, then we’ll find someone else,” Creo said.

“
Times have changed, gentlemen. That stunt you all pulled in the trolley station a couple of weeks ago. It killed a lot of innocent people. I don’t like it when my weapons kill innocent people, but I’m sure we can work something out,” he said, revealing his pearly white teeth again and motioning the two soldiers back into their seats.

“
I suppose my policy can be bypassed, if, say, you assure me collateral damage will be kept at a minimum and…” Lupai paused again, his grin getting wider. “If the price is right. Do you get my drift?”

Creo
and Nathar nodded in agreement, settling back into the booth.

Lupai smiled again
. “I can spare four men right now. That is it. I’m sorry, but until the TDU reemerges with another attack to give this area hope, men will be in short supply.”

“Four will work,”
Creo said reluctantly.

Lupia offered his hand across the table. “
We have a deal then. Your men and supplies will be waiting for you at this address,” he said, handing Creo a small slip of paper.

“If you need anything else, you know where to find me,” he said, scooting out of the booth and disappearing back into the crowd.

Nathar and
Creo both took another swig of their ale. “Let’s get back to the junkyard. This freaking place gives me the creeps,” Nathar said.

Creo
caught one last glimpse of Lupai before he followed Nathar out the closest exit.
This guy better be as good as Obi says he is,
he thought, heading into the dark bowels of the alleyway. 

Time
: 7:35 p.m. February 23, 2071.

Location
: Immigrant Camp #4. Rohania, Tisaia

Mulia jumped off the back of an old pickup before the guard riding in the bed could push him onto the dirt street below. A squad of Knights marched by him, their armor clanking noisily. It was a sound he had learned to accept, one as common as the morning alarm.

He paused to glance up at the familiar sight of immigrant camp #4. It was dusk, and the search lights on the guard towers rising far above him were already brighter than the moon hovering above them. There was never a moment of
true darkness in the camp. Never a reprieve for the exhausted immigrants, rounded up like livestock and forced to live in tents, before being deported back into the Wastelands.

The camp was surrounded by monstrous electric fences and backed up to the great walls. There was no escaping. Anyone that tried ended up dead.

The only way into camp was a 20 foot tall metal gate. It screeched open three times a day. Once in the morning for immigrants lucky enough to have a job; again at three in the afternoon, for any newly rounded up immigrants, and then at dusk, when the immigrants returned from their jobs.

Mulia ran his hand through his greasy
, thinning hair, waiting for the gate to open. He watched a pair of Knights striding in unison towards him like a robotic centipede, their armor clanking as they walked.

“Move it,”
said one of the Knights.

Mulia jumped out of the way, dropping his hands to his side
s and his gaze to the ground. Eye contact with the guards wasn’t forbidden, but for the past four years in captivity Mulia had never looked a Knight in the eye. He knew his role and accepted it. It was this mentality that helped him form a mutual relationship of convenience with nearly every guard in the camp. He did this by showing them respect and following their every command. It wasn’t that he lacked a conscience or respect for himself, he simply wanted to survive. And so far he had done exactly that.

There were also the memories from his past that played a distinct role in his survival. He vaguely remembered his childhood, but his journey to Tisaia was burned in
to his memory like a tattoo. From the time the raiders pillaged the shanty town he grew up in, to the subsequent trip his father financed to smuggle his family into Tisaia, these memories were as much as part of him as the scars on his back.

Mulia knew what life was like outside the walls
, and he would do anything to keep from going back out there. He would rather kiss the boots of the Knight who gave him the scars on his back than be thrown back into the hell and misery of the Wastelands.

He looked back down at his feet and saw the radiation scars lining both
of his legs. Every day he remembered how he got them and the cave he and his parents took refuge in when the trip to the storm drains went astray. His family hadn’t made it more than 20 miles before the same group of raiders caught up with them and cornered them in a cave. Their guide took off the moment he saw the raiders, but his family was not so lucky.

It took only a few days for the symptoms of radiation poisoning to manifest. His mom and sister didn’t live much longer than that.  He would never forget watching his sister, the life slowly draining from her, a combination of terror and confusion burning in her eyes. Nor would he forget the sores and boils over his Mother’s arms and head where her hair had fallen out. And worst of all was his last image of his father, firing his shotgun harmlessly at the Raiders while their bullets tore through his soft flesh. 

Ironically, it was the guide that saved Mulia after the pirates had taken what they wanted and left him for
dead. The skinny, toothless man dressed in raggedy tan military fatigues carried him all the way to the great Tisaian walls without saying a word. He turned Mulia over to a sympathetic family living in Rohania. They tried to help him, but his wounds were too severe so they took him to a hospital where he spent a month healing. He never found out why the guide returned for him. Was it a sense of regret from abandoning his family, or something else? He would never know.

“Get moving
,” another guard said, nudging his rifle into Mulia’s ribcage. He moaned in pain but continued forward, cringing at the sound of the two ton gate slowly creaking open. It was a sound he heard every day, multiple times a day, and one his ears still rebelled against.

“Let’s go
,” the guard said again, his voice muffled by the breathing apparatus inside his helmet.

Mulia hustled towards the customs
station. He was a gunsmith, having been taught the trade by his father in the trading town years ago. It was there he learned how to build guns, change out parts, and fix pretty much any gun that came his way. This made him invaluable to the guards, who constantly needed their weapons serviced. It also meant he was strip searched at the end of every working day to make sure he wasn’t stealing any parts. In the past four years, Mulia had made certain every part he did steal for his TDU contacts was never detected.

A sharp pain
shot down his leg while he ran, reminding him of the secret place he kept bullets and parts squirreled away for the TDU. He stopped for a second to massage his thigh, where a loose piece of skin covered a hollowed out piece of flesh, just large enough for a round of ammunition or a part to a gun. The wound was a result of the radiation poisoning. It was one of many places where the amateur TDU doctor opted to remove flesh rather than let it heal properly when he was first brought to Tisaia. At first the pain was excruciating, but over the years of hiding weapon parts he grew mostly numb to the pain.

After his strip search he was free to head back to his corridors where his tent mate, Kalah, would be preparing dinner from their rationed food.

The camp was set up in three rows of tents with 30 in each row. The middle row was reserved for families, while the outside rows were used by single occupants. With four guard towers rising far above the camp, it was designed so the CRK would have full range of view at all times.

Most of the guards were Knight Cadets and were training for service, but some were veteran Knights who transferred to the camp for a variety of reasons. The most infamous veteran was Royal Knight Nemir. His hatred for immigrants dated back to when his brother was killed in an uprising at the camp years ago.

Mulia made it to his tent just as the street lights glowed to life.

“Just in time for dinner
, my friend,” Kalah said, without looking up from a pot he was stirring. Mulia nodded and sat down on his cot, slowly slipping out of his work boots. He leaned back and watched the old man stir the stew slowly, checking the density with every other stir.

Kalah was a master cook. It was the only thing keeping him from being deported to the Wastelands. The Knights grew so fond of his cooking
, they continued to delay his paperwork so he could stay in the camp’s main kitchen.

“I heard Nemir beat another young man today.”

Mulia shrugged. “Someday he will get what he is owed.”

“
That day may be approaching quicker than we thought,” Kalah said, a sly grin streaking across his old dark weather-beaten skin.

Mulia sat up, his interest sparked. “What do you mean? I thought we lost contact with the TDU after their headquarters was destroyed.”

“Ah, but we both know the TDU had other locations. The Tin Cans can never kill them all. New freedom fighters will replace the fallen. History proves the just are always victorious in the long run.”

Mulia shrugged again. He wasn’t in the mood to argue tonight.

“There is something else you may be interested in,” Kalah said, picking up on Mulia’s solemn demeanor.

“The Samoan is fighting Royal Knight Tinus at the Golden Dome tomorrow night. Many of the immigrants believe he can win.”

Mulia finished taking off his work boots and caught his friend’s excited gaze.

“Don’t get your hopes up. Tinus has never lost a battle in the arena and I don’t
expect he will tomorrow. Besides, you know the fights are rigged.”

Kalah frowned and looked back down at his stew. As a young man he had driven a cab in New York. He survived the nuclear blast in Manhattan and escaped to a refugee camp set up on the east coast before Tisaia was ever formed. He immigrated to Tisaia a decade ago when the refugee camp finally collapsed from disease and famine. He had seen so much in his years, but he wasn’t sure if he would ever see an immigrant win their freedom in the Golden Dome.

Kalah took the pot of stew off the fire and placed it on a pad atop a crate between their two cots. He scooped a steaming spoonful of the dish into two small bowls, sprinkling a pinch of salt into the bowl before handing it to Mulia.

“Hope you like,” he
said, with another grin, revealing the last three teeth in his mouth.

“Thank you. I have something for you too.”

Slowly Mulia pulled up his pant leg and peeled back the three inches of dead skin on his thigh. He reached into the opening and pulled out an inch long piece of metal.

“Is that what I think it is?” Kalah asked,
beaming.

“It is. This should complete the sniper rifle I have been working on for over a year. When the riots start
, we shall be ready,” Mulia said, his voice at a hoarse whisper.

He picked up his bowl and began to shovel the hot stew into his mouth, stopping momentarily to cool it with
his breath. Kalah quickly followed suit, and the two men ate the rest of their dinner in silence. When they were finished, Kalah rinsed the bowls with a small bit of left over water and placed the bowls neatly on top of the crate.

Normally Kalah would tell a story before bed, or the two would read, but tonight he was exhausted. Mulia blew the flame out in the lantern hanging from the wood rafters of their tent and lay back down in his cot
, pulling the covers up to his chin.