Chapter XII: Custody

Seattle, Cascadia Border Zone Command

[21/5/2056]

Peter was trapped in a metal cube.

The interrogation room was a dimly lit space of dark, polished steel. No obvious source of illumination was evident at a glance, and Peter had had plenty of time to give it more than a cursory inspection. His wrists were bound by cold metal cuffs, magnetically adhered to the chair he occupied. A plain metal table and two empty chairs were the only ornamentation visible.

Peter's knee ached where the baton had laid into it. His wrists had deep grooves where the zip ties had cut into them. His captors hadn't allowed him a change of clothes, and so he had sat there for hours, percolating in his own stink. To add insult to injury, his temples were throbbing with the beginnings of a hangover.

What troubled him more than the physical discomfort was the inescapable feeling of despair that threatened to overwhelm him. He felt as if he was sinking into frigid water, into a cold so bitter and all-consuming that it would freeze his last breath before it ever left his lungs.

I've screwed it all up…

This descent into despair was interrupted when the wall to his right split open, and white light filled the room. A pair of men in plain grey uniforms strode in. Their collarless jackets had no rank or insignia. Spooks. They took seats on the other side of the table. One of them laid a handheld tablet on the metal surface, and idly scrolled through it. Neither said a word.

The silence dragged on, excruciatingly. Peter wasn't going to speak first; he was terrified of what might happen if he broke it. His knee throbbed in anticipation of further beatings.

"Peter Gale…" the man on the right began, drawing the name out as he consulted his tablet. Peter nodded numbly. His throat seemed to have swollen, rendering him mute.

"Let's see what we have on you…" The intelligence agent waved his hands over the table. The glossy black surface came to life, displaying information from glowing projectors within. Candid photos of Peter taken from the streets around the dive bar, text messages, even a receipt all splashed out across the table's surface.

"Trespass of a Zone Wall, providing aid to a hostile power, associating with political dissidents, sedition. You could spend the rest of your life in max security. I mean, there's no way he doesn't get life for this right?" the man on the right turned to his colleague, hamming it up in front of the prisoner.

Leftie pursed his lips. "More likely he'd be shot," he replied in a low voice that was almost contemplative. "No point wasting resources keeping a traitor alive."

"I'm not a traitor." Peter snapped before he could stop himself.

"No?" Rightie's facade of joviality dropped instantly, replaced by a cold, grey stare. Peter shook his head, and fought to keep his lip from quivering.

"I'm not a smuggler or anything. I know I was outside the Zone Wall, and that's… what it is, but it's not what you think."

"Not a smuggler?" Rightie repeated. as he dropped the tablet he'd been flicking through onto the table. Peter saw the transcript of a text conversation scrolling across its surface. Curiosity beat out trepidation, and he leaned in for a closer look, as much as his restraints would allow. He recognised the handle he had first used to make contact on what he had thought was a secure black market network.

"Is that meant to scare me?" he said with more confidence than he felt. "Capricorn_12? That- that could be anybody."

"Sure, it could," the interrogator conceded with a shrug.

"But these don't belong to just anyone."

And he produced a wad of crumpled paper bills, stained by their journey through the outlet pipe.

"Tib Mark notes," he continued. "Kinda rare these days. In fact, none have been in circulation in a Blue Zone since '43. Almost exclusively used by Zone Runners… and the Brotherhood. Kinda funny that they ended up in your pockets."

Peter shut his eyes. The severity of the situation was threatening to overwhelm him. He squeezed his eyes tight against the tears that welled up behind his eyelids.

"I'm not a traitor," he said softly. "I was just trying to help Manny."

Rightie leaned in, and wove his fingers together, elbows on the table's edge. "So, this Manny. He's a… friend?" The interrogator's lip twitched; a shadow of a smirk.

"Husband." Asshole.

"Husband, right," The interrogator smiled, but the acidic expression lent no warmth to his face. "So, you're trying to help out your husband, Manny. Why isn't he with you now?"

Peter exhaled slowly. On instinct, he moved to run his hands through his hair, but they struck the hard metal of the cuffs. He wanted to explain everything to the agents, prove to them that he wasn't a Nod sympathiser or a smuggler, but how could he even hope to explain the years of hard circumstances and bad choices that had led him here. He took a deep breath, and began.

"We were both broke. I'd just graduated with my Bachelor's in Ecology, he had a manufacturing job in the San Pedro plant. After the plant closed, there was no work for someone like him. Basic income wasn't enough to get by. We had to go back and live with my parents.

"Then, I got this job offer, after the war. The pay was good; better than anything I could get in B-11. But there was a catch. The position was only for me. Resources were limited, they said, and manual labour wasn't required. Manny couldn't get a work permit. He tried, we tried… everything. But they wouldn't authorise his relocation.

"He didn't want me to go, said we'd find another way, but I knew there wasn't another way. I knew we'd starve or be killed by toxaemia or fucking aliens - can you believe that? We have to deal with fucking aliens trying to kills us now too - we wouldn't last another five years in San Pedro." Peter paused. The arguments they'd had then were vicious. Even now it hurt to recall.

Leftie nodded sympathetically, and gestured for Peter to continue.

"I decided to go. I took the job, so I could save up enough to sponsor visas for them, and send money home for him, and my parents, in the meantime. I told him it would only be a few years. I thought it would be. But the immigration requirements kept changing, getting stricter, and the visa fees were more expensive…" Peter tried to gesture helplessly, but his wrists were held still.

"So you decide to go outside the system," the interrogator said, matter-of-factly. "If the official channels aren't working, maybe the Brotherhood can help."

Peter shook his head. "Not the Brotherhood. I just wanted to bring my family together again."

"That's very noble of you, Pete," Rightie remarked. "But I don't think a military court is gonna look at it so kindly. You're all wrapped up in something heavy, whether you like it or not. But the good news for you is, there's a way out of this. You see, the guy you were planning to meet is part of a bigger network. These are people moving contraband across the border and into the Blue Zones; if they've got a route through the Zone Wall, then the Brotherhood has a way in too."

Peter was flabbergasted. "What am I supposed to do about it?"

"You've got an in; a contact. You're gonna go to the meeting, just as planned, spill your sob story about your buddy, and you're gonna be our eyes and ears."

Peter couldn't help but laugh at the lunacy of it all.

"I'm not a spy! I can't infiltrate anything!"

"No, you aren't at that. But we don't need hardened operatives; we need someone authentic, someone who looks… I dunno…"

"Desperate," finished Leftie.

"You guys are doing a great job of playing bad cop, worse cop," Peter remarked.

This struck a nerve.

Rightie reached across the table, and grabbed Peter by the collar. His head snapped forward with a jerk.

"We're giving you a chance here, you little shit! Are you gonna take it? If not, get used to the view, cos it's the only one you're gonna see for the rest of your life!"

A vein was throbbing in the interrogator's temple. Peter swallowed, and measured his carefully.

"You can't just hold me here forever. I still have rights."

Rightie smiled ruefully, and released Peter's collar.

"Actually, you don't," Leftie responded. He made a great show of paging through the tablet, then passed it to his companion. Rightie took it, and read with relish.

"According to the UN International Security Act of 2023 - individuals suspected of subversive activities against member nations can be held indefinitely without trial until such time… yahda yahda yahda… suspension of civil liberties… yeah, it doesn't look so great…"

Peter hung his head, and this time, the tears began to flow unchecked.

"Hey, you've got a chance here to do the right thing," Rightie said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "If you help us hook a big fish, we'll do what we can to make sure you get off light."

Peter nodded mutely.

"But if you get any clever ideas, or decide you wanna make a break for it? You better hope you get a good head start."

—

Seattle Zone Wall

[22/5/2056]

The unmarked van dropped him off just outside the safe haven of the Zone Wall, a little after midnight. The dimly lit streets were devoid of life at this early hour. A street-sweeping bot trundled along, its plastic flanks marked by graffiti.

The apartment blocks and commercial buildings quickly gave way to shanties and prefab structures in bad need of repair. Peter picked up his pace as he passed a brick building that was pockmarked with bullet holes. No one emerged to acost him.

A light rain began to fall. Peter's work shirt was soon soaked through. He was grateful for the fresh water. The sweat, blood, and nameless muck of the outlet pipe had stained his clothes beyond recognition, and it felt good to be somewhat close to clean again.

Peter found the meeting place without much difficulty. It was the entrance to an old highway tunnel, framed by concrete buttresses which held back gravel infill. Weeds had rooted into the loose gravel, and wet streaks stained the concrete, which was cracked and pitted.

Peter gingerly picked his way down the rocky incline. When he reached the bottom, he put his hands on his knees and caught his breath.

"You're late."

Peter nearly jumped out of his skin. He cast around for a sign of who had spoken, straining his eyes as he stared into the darkness. A figure detached themselves from the shadows, and began to stalk closer. Peter raised his hands, palms out, in what he hoped was a placating gesture.

"I had some trouble getting out of the city," he said simply, hoping the topic of GDI surveillance wouldn't come up. He went to glance over his shoulder instinctively, but caught the suspicious movement partway.

The smuggler stepped out of the shadows. He had a weather-beaten face, the consistency of old leather. He could have been anywhere between thirty or fifty. His eyes shone with a faint green glow in the ebbing twilight.

"So, uh, how do we do this?" Peter asked in a falsely cheerful voice.

"Cash up front," the smuggler replied. Peter nodded, and fished the crumpled wad of notes the ZoneSec agents had returned to him out of a pocket. The smuggler grabbed the bundle and rifled through it. Apparently satisfied, he stuffed the notes into a pocket of his vest, while staring past Peter's shoulder.

"Here's the work papers for your boy," the smuggler said as he held out a flexi-tablet bearing Manny's picture and details.

"Is Manny here with you?" Peter's throat was tight with anticipation.

"Hmm? Nah, not here, man, he's waiting down in the tunnel," the smuggler jerked a thumb at the yawning highway entrance behind him. "I'll bring you to him, in a moment." The man kept scanning the horizon behind Peter with twitchy movements.

"What about my parents?" Peter asked as he accepted the tablet. The other man raised his palms in a gesture that was half contrite, half defensive.

"I can't work miracles, man."

"I thought all things were possible through the Technology of Peace?" Peter retorted before he could stop himself. This earned him a scowl from the weatherbeaten smuggler.

"We're not all fanatics out in the Zones, y'know."

Peter averted his gaze, ashamed. "Sorry. That was unfair."

The man said nothing in response. Why am I apologising to a criminal?

A rattle trickle of gravel fell from the roof of the highway tunnel. The smuggler's head snapped around to follow the motion. Peter caught a glimpse of silhouettes atop the concrete structure, outlined against the grey sky.

"What the hell, man!" A pistol was in the smuggler's hand in an instant. "Did you lead them to me? Is this a set up?"

"No, I swear, I don't know who they-"

"I'll put a bullet in your fucking head, man, don't you lie to me!" The smuggler brandished the weapon at Peter, who stumbled over the uneven rocks as he backpedalled out of the man's reach.

A blinding spotlight flared up on the ridge, transfixing them both.

"Hands up! Back up, five feet apart!" An amplified voice commanded. Peter instinctively raised his hands in deference to authority. The tablet fell from his limp other man levelled his handgun at the top of the ridge.

"Drop the weapon, or we will be forced to fire!" the authoritative voice barked out.
A burst of automatic fire rattled out.

The smuggler lunged forward, hooking an arm around Peter's neck, and pulled him close. The steel of the muzzle was cold against his temple.

A tremor ran through the ground, accompanied by a deep rumbling sound, like a freight train passing beneath his feet.

"Step away from the hostage and lay down your weapon," the amplified voice demanded. The smuggler forced his weapon into the back of Peter's neck, hard. His pulse was pounding in his throat. How was it that he was about to die, gunned down in a desolate outskirt of a doomed city? Three days ago, he had been dry, uninjured, and safely bored.

Peter heard the rumbling sound again, louder this time, and he was nearly thrown off balance as the ground heaved. The contact-turned-captor tightened his grip on the back of Peter's neck.

"Bullshit!" the armed man shouted. "I'm not giving up my leverage!"

The frigid wind tugged at Peter's thin clothing. He felt as cold as the grave already. There was a pause, then a new voice spoke up.

"If we have to shoot you through him we will," Rightie called back. "Don't give us a reason!"

"You fucking asshole!" Peter shouted over the growing roar.

A flash of vivid green lit up the horizon, accompanied by a crack like distant thunder. Peter and his captor were both thrown to the ground. The pistol fell out of the smuggler's grip and clattered across the asphalt. Peter struggled to his feet, and kicked the weapon away.

"What the hell was that for?" the smuggler shouted.

"You were going to shoot me!"

"It was just a bluff man!"

"Both of you, stay where you are!"

A trooper in blocky powered armour was charging down the slope, a squad of ZoneSec agents clustered behind it. The servos in the suit's legs amplified their motion so that each stride punched a hole in the crumbling asphalt. Twin autocannons were mounted on robotic arms. Peter froze in place, arms raised in surrender. The smuggler practically vibrated with nervous energy as he shifted his weight from foot to foot

"This is your last warning! Stay where you are or we will be forced to use deadly force!"

The agents and their mechanical monster were right on top of them and Peter was rooted to the ground with terror, unable to tear himself free as death charged towards him.

Something burst in the air above them with a sound like a bomb blast. The shockwave hit Peter like a sledgehammer to the chest, throwing him against the wall. His head hit the concrete with a hard crack, and stars burst behind his eyes.

The agents scattered as droplets of green fire rained over them. A chunk of flaming rock the size of a football struck the armoured soldier, and he staggered.

"Oh mierda!"

The smuggler made a dive for the old tunnel entrance. Before he'd made it a metre, the autocannons whirred to life and the zone-dweller was shredded in a hail of gunfire. A spray of viscera splattered against the concrete wall of the highway tunnel.

Peter's head rang with the ear splitting report of the weapons. He staggered drunkenly, and grabbed onto the wall of the tunnel for support. Another flaming fragment screamed past his face and crashed to the ground. He leaped back with a shriek, into the shelter of the tunnel mouth.

"Stop! Don't let Gale get away!"

The autocannons chattered, and the tunnel wall exploded into powder and shrapnel. Peter turned on his heel and ran.

Mechanical legs pistoned as the mech pursued him. That roaring beneath the ground pervaded everything, following both of them as they plunged ever deeper into the hillside.

Peter ran blindly through the darkness, the sound of his footfalls echoing harshly off the concrete. He ran till his lungs burned and his feet ached. Whenever he thought he must have run far enough, those pounding mechanical footsteps reminded him that he was far from safe.

So he kept running, around winding bends and agonisingly long stretches of straight road where he was sure his pursuer would spot him and gun him down.

He rounded another bend and crashed straight into the rusted husk of a car. Peter gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs. He skirted the derelict vehicle, but a maze of abandoned cars was barricading the way through. He clambered over the hood of the nearest, dislodging a layer of rust flakes. The wing mirror snapped off as he rolled over the far side, and Peter winced as the metal mounting nicked his hand. A line of blood welled up along the palm, mingling with the dirt caked there. Peter felt a brief pang of worry over infection, before the grim reality of his circumstances reasserted itself.

Tetanus is the least of my worries right now.

Peter vaulted car after car. Each hurdle was harder to summit than the last, and he felt his strength flagging. It was some small reassurance that his pursuer in their bulky power armour would find it much harder to navigate the maze of wreckage.

Peter rolled over the hood of another wrecked vehicle and slumped against it, exhausted. His gaze fell across a grim sight; a dessicated body, wrapped in rags. The unlucky soul was propped up beside a hatch in the tunnel wall, what looked to be a maintenance access point of some sort. One of its arms had fallen free, and lay on the cracked asphalt like a grizzly signpost. Peter raised a hand in greeting to the corpse, and let out a chuckle that quickly became a sob.

Perhaps I should just lie down and die too.

If he stayed here amongst the ruins, and never rose again, would the ZoneSec agents give him up for dead? Would anyone ever find his body? Or would he lay here and rot, till his limbs fell off, like the figure before him?

No, the smuggler had told him Manny was here, waiting for him, somewhere in this tunnel. He had to carry on, for his husband, if not himself.

Groaning with exertion, Peter rose to his feet, and staggered towards the corpse. Now that he looked at it closely, it didn't seem like the arm had fallen free on its own; a blow had shattered the shoulder joint. And the ground where it lay was notably cleaner than the asphalt beyond it, like it had been swept recently. That was absurd though; who would clean a few square feet of abandoned tunnel? There must be something hidden here, something that had been moved recently.

Peter scrambled forward, excited. He brushed against the skeletal figure, which toppled with a puff of dust. Peter ignored it. There were marks on the maintenance hatch; fingerprints! He pushed against the hatch. It creaked and moved a fraction. Peter put his shoulder against it and heaved. The hinges produced an ear-splitting screech, but the door opened a crack. Peter edged inside, squeezing through the tight gap. As he entered the room, he knocked over a metal shelf, which had been wedging the hatch shut.

The space behind the wall was small; little more than a cubby for loose tools. A chemical lamp sat on a shelf, casting a dim glow across bundles of backpacks, and stacks of cardboard boxes. Peter stepped over to a bench which stood against the wall. It was littered with flex-screen tablets like the one he'd bought from the smuggler. There were a few personal effects too; bracelets, a teddy bear, watches. But there was no sign of Manny.

Peter slammed his fist into the table. It rang like a bell. He quickly regretted this, not just for the noise it had made, but also the sharp pain that shot through his arm. He slumped to the ground, and cradled his injured hand.

All this hurt and loss, and for what? He was a fugitive, his lead to the underground was dead, and he was no closer to reuniting with Manny.

And what the hell had caused fire to rain from the sky?