Authors: Malorie Blackman
‘No, sir,’ replied Kaspar.
‘It’d be tough if you were,’ Voss called back.
Kaspar peered after Voss into a pipe that rapidly narrowed until it was barely a metre wide. Well, if he wasn’t claustrophobic before, this experience could very easily change that. The AC duct ran horizontally for a couple of metres then disappeared. A deep breath later, Kaspar followed his boss into the conduit. It didn’t take him long to discover why the duct just seemed to disappear. It turned downwards at a ninety-degree angle. Voss had already jammed his feet against one side of the shaft and his back was wedged hard against the opposite side as he started to edge downwards. Kaspar let him get down a couple of metres, then followed. Dust flew up around them like an angry insect swarm.
Descending, however, was easier than it looked, and both men were soon crouching in another horizontal pipe. Kaspar reckoned they were now nine or ten metres below ground. It was certainly dim, but not completely dark. Voss placed his finger against his lips, then started crawling as quietly as he could towards a patch of light about twenty metres ahead. A dust storm swirled around them, far worse than before, and Kaspar struggled not to sneeze. He’d already applied a finger to his nose three times as they made their way towards the light. He opened his mouth slightly to take in air that way instead of through his nose. The dust left an ashy aftertaste on his
tongue, but better that than sneezing or coughing and alerting the enemy to their presence or, worse still, incurring Voss’s wrath.
At the end of this passageway, Kaspar was able to peer through an air-conditioning grille right into the computer core. Row upon row of servers, patchers and communications equipment lined the room. Some of the monitors were set into the various panels. Most of the data was designed to be projected at eye level. A huge screen dominated one wall. The only door was directly across the room from the vent where Kaspar and Voss were hidden.
Not three metres away sat the terrorist.
Kaspar wasn’t sure what he had expected – maybe someone bigger, more threatening, possibly ranting and perhaps planting bombs. In fact, the guy he spied was his age or only slightly older, was lean to the point of being positively skinny and was at least a head shorter than Kaspar from the look of it. He sat in an office chair, calmly reading the data off the screen before him, looking uncannily like a student simply relaxing in a library. He wore a close-fitting black outfit like a scuba suit. The terrorist had taken off his hooded mask and left it on the desk to his left next to his rucksack. He reminded Kaspar of the historical ninjas he’d read about in some of his graphic novels. To the terrorist’s right lay a pistol with a silencer attached, and beside the gun was a dagger with a wicked-looking twenty-centimetre black blade that had been plunged into the desk, tip first.
Kaspar frowned and cast a glance at his boss. If any of
the Guardians had done that to a knife, Voss would’ve had seven fits. His boss turned so that he was facing the terrorist with his feet pressed against the grille. He unslung his rifle and pointed it into the room between his feet, signing to Kaspar to do the same. At that moment, the rest of the Guardians arrived outside the door. They obviously weren’t operating in stealth mode – Kaspar could hear them from across the room. Voss held up three fingers. The keypad on the other side of the room beeped as the eight-digit code was entered.
Two fingers.
The door across the room clicked as the magnetic locks disengaged. The terrorist stood up, and with a swipe of his fingers dismissed the screen he’d just been reading. He snatched up his knife and faced the door, his back towards Voss and Kaspar.
One finger.
The door slid open. Kaspar tightened his grip on his weapon. A nod from Voss and both men kicked as hard as they could. The grille flew off its mountings. The terrorist spun round, the knife in his hand already moving upwards, but too late. Kaspar and Voss fired simultaneously and the terrorist slumped to the floor, convulsing. Then the juddering stopped. The rest of the Guardians swept into the room, looking a little bit disappointed that the action was over.
‘Nicely done again, kid,’ said Voss as he slapped Kaspar on the back. Hard. ‘You have the makings of a first-class Guardian, like me.’
Voss laughed at his own joke as he made his way over to the terrorist, who lay on the floor, his knife discarded beside him. The rest stood around, lightening the tension by swapping stories about who had shot whom, and what morons the terrorists were, though quickly shutting up when Voss glared at them, his face stern again.
Kaspar walked over to the terrorist and squatted down to check for bugs and other devices. The guy had no pockets, no gadgets, no devices of any kind, not even a watch. Kaspar straightened up to examine the rucksack on the desk. There were no transmission devices in there either. Just some spider-wire and climbing equipment. He leaned over to examine the assailant’s gun. Unlike the guns of the Guardians, this was an automatic projectile-weapon, loaded and lethal. Kaspar wanted to pick it up, but he knew better than to touch it – his training had taught him about contaminating evidence. While the others were securing the area, Kaspar turned to the computer and accessed the history list, flicking through a couple of the virtual screens that had so held the Insurgent’s attention.
What on earth . . . ?
Why was the terrorist looking at data about Calliston Water? It was a lake several kilometres away from Capital City. No one went there as it was too isolated; you could see that much from the image on the screen. It didn’t supply Capital City with water or food and there were no dwellings or industrial bases around it – just a whole heap of nothing. Why risk breaking into the Academy’s
computer core merely to find out more about it? It didn’t make sense.
Janna and Dillon came running into the room.
‘The rest of the facility is secure, sir,’ Dillon announced.
He and Janna spied the terrorist still lying unconscious on the floor, their expressions betraying their disappointment at not being part of the takedown. Kaspar used the opportunity to take another look at the terrorist. His initial assessment wasn’t far off the mark. This guy was only a couple of years older than him, if that, with buzz-cut hair and a sallow complexion that spoke of his life in the Badlands. Kaspar was struck by just how ordinary he looked. No horns or tail, no fangs, just nondescript. The kind of guy you’d walk past in the street without sparing him a first glance, never mind a second one.
‘Wilding, when you’ve finished staring holes through the Insurgent, perhaps you’d like to get back to work,’ Voss snapped.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Kaspar snapped out of his reverie.
‘Spraining your arm from patting yourself on the back, are you?’ Janna asked without malice.
‘No, my arm is still working just fine. But thanks for asking,’ Kaspar replied with a grin.
‘Kas saved the day!’ someone across the room announced to the raucous laughter of those present.
Kaspar accepted the congratulations and the teasing of his friends with equal embarrassment, his face burning.
‘Not bad, Kas,’ said Dillon, slapping him on the back.
‘Thanks.’ Kaspar rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the ache in it.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Dillon. ‘Did the bad guy manage to get one or two licks in first?’
‘No, but you did! Dillon, mate, you’re built like a tank transport,’ said Kaspar. ‘Could you not pat me on the back ’cause it hurts every time.’
‘Wuss!’ Dillon said without a trace of sympathy.
Kaspar looked up at Dillon and shook his head. The trouble was, Dillon didn’t know his own strength. He was as tall as Voss but a lot beefier. His best friend spent every spare minute in the gym working out and had the muscles on his muscles to prove it.
‘Anyway, well done for not making a complete twat of yourself today,’ smiled Dillon.
In truth, Kaspar couldn’t help feeling relieved over exactly the same thing. At least he hadn’t given Voss a reason to kick his butt or, worse still, kick him out. Dillon booted the unconscious terrorist, which Voss chose not to see. Kaspar watched with a frown as Dillon kicked the saboteur’s knife further away from him, just in case.
‘People, it doesn’t take all of us to guard one unconscious lowlife. Kaspar and Dillon, stay put till the criminal investigation forensic unit and the medics arrive to take this piece of garbage away. The rest of you are with me,’ Voss ordered. The commander headed for the door, not bothering to look back to make sure his instructions were being followed. He knew they would be.
‘Kas, what’s up with you?’ said Janna as she drew level.
‘I don’t get this,’ replied Kaspar.
‘What’s to get?’ asked Dillon. ‘Bad guys make trouble, good guys kick their arses. Bad guys go to hospital, good guys go and drink beer once their shift is over. Simple.’ Dillon didn’t do nuances.
‘Yeah, but why?’ Kaspar persisted. ‘Why did they arrange a diversion to get this man into the core when he didn’t even try to escape or do any damage? And he was so calm, he didn’t seem the least bit deranged or fanatical. He was just
reading
, about Calliston Water, of all places. What’s that all about?’
‘They’re all intellectually challenged, my hero, so why worry about it?’ Janna offered as explanation. A smile later, she slapped his butt and headed for the door.
‘Yes, but why go for his knife and not the gun?’ Kaspar asked.
But Janna was gone and Dillon wasn’t listening.
The savagery, the brutality, the sheer inhumanity of the Uprising was like nothing that had gone before. When the Insurgency first started, we in the Alliance had no choice but to fight as they fought. Nothing less than our very survival was at stake. We became worryingly adept at killing them, but we were paying for our new expertise with the loss of our humanity. We came to realize that we were destined to become just like them – constantly plotting, rejoicing in enemies slain, keeping score by counting bodies.
We had to adopt a new ethos or lose our very souls.
With our technical ability, we put our minds to the development of non-lethal weapons. Thus came the stun rifle, immobilizing gas and the glue-guns, amongst others. Renouncing killing was our salvation. Though the battle may continue, let us never return to those dark days of long ago where killing was seen as the first, last and only solution.
Ours is a noble conflict.
Extract taken from ‘Towards a New Morality’ by Sister Madeleine
By the time Kaspar got back outside, the front lawn looked like a medical convention. Non-wounded guests and dignitaries had long since been escorted off the premises, leaving behind only the wounded friendlies, who were being triaged by one junior doctor, a guy in his mid-twenties with light brown hair and a permanently creased forehead. He had assessed each casualty and split them into three groups – ‘beyond hope’, ‘non-urgent’, and the third vital category, ‘serious but saveable’. Only one person was in the first category: a middle-aged woman who’d had a heart attack when the assault started and the terrorists began lobbing thermal grenades. Either bad luck or bad judgement on the part of the terrorists meant that the ‘beyond hope’ category contained far fewer people than Kaspar had first feared.
It was so damned unfair that none of the terrorists was ‘beyond hope’, because he and the other Guardians only used non-lethal weapons. Each terrorist casualty was allocated their own team of medics. The unconscious ones were put on spinal boards, had central lines inserted and were wired up to heart monitors. Those still conscious
were handcuffed. Then everyone was carefully loaded into transports and flown to the Clinic – Capital City’s trauma centre.
Watching the way the terrorists were being handled made Kaspar slightly ashamed of his previous wish that his weapon might do more than stun. His first real-life confrontational situation, and what was his reaction? To wallow in anger and yearn to dish out the same as the Insurgents. It was just as well that the High Councillors set the rules about the Guardians using only non-lethal techniques and weapons, not him. He’d have to watch that in future. In combat, he needed to make sure that he kept his emotions on lock-down.
‘This is surreal,’ he said.
‘What is?’ said Janna.
‘The way we treat the bad guys just the same as our own. In fact, better,’ replied Kaspar. ‘I always knew that was the philosophy, but it’s weird – and kind of wonderful – to see that we actually practise what we preach.’
‘Pardon me if I’m less than impressed,’ hissed Janna. ‘My arm hurts like a bastard and some pointy-nosed heifer with a stethoscope ran right past me to get to a terrorist with an ingrowing toenail.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ said Kaspar.
Janna rolled up her sleeve to reveal a vicious-looking raised blister covering at least a third of her left forearm. The area around the blister was an intense, angry red.
‘You should get that looked at,’ said Dillon.
Kaspar shook his head at Dillon. Winding up Janna
when she was already puce with anger was like cheating at Solitaire – a guaranteed win but hardly worth the effort.
‘You think? Try telling that to the medicos. These Insurgents come at us with thermal grenades, we defend ourselves with stun-guns and then the doctors give them priority for treatment.’ Janna was spitting nails. ‘How messed up is that?’
‘It’s the price we pay for being better than them,’ chipped in Dillon. ‘Though I must admit, I wasn’t thinking particularly charitable, non-lethal thoughts when it all kicked off. I would’ve happily killed them all and screw what the Council say. My mum was in the audience.’
‘Is she OK?’ Kaspar frowned.
‘Oh, yeah. She’s gone home now. I didn’t get much of a chance to speak to her, to be honest, so I’ll have to CommLink with her tonight. She’s going to worry about me even worse than before now.’
‘Amen to happily killing them all,’ said Janna. ‘Considering what those animals do, stunning them just isn’t enough. Maybe we could go back to using some of the early non-lethals that the first Guardians used, like the quick-setting plastifoam that often caused death by suffocation.’