Chapter Forty-five

Realisation

Malcolm Reed

It takes us about a week to get back to base, and during that week I look with newly-opened eyes at my companions.

It has to be admitted that I don't much like what I see.

Not the men themselves. They're decent blokes, and they've been well trained; they do what they do extremely well. It's their attitude to me that – now I actually perceive it – I find unbearable.

I thought they were wary of me. That they'd never really trusted me, and still didn't – not quite; and I could live with that. I'd deserved it, after all.

What I find, now the scales have been peeled from my eyes, is that they're wary for me. That they're taking fewer risks, avoiding ones they'd take if they didn't have me with them. That they're allowing more time, taking more breaks, searching out water more frequently. That they're keeping an eye on me, making sure I'm not tiring, that I don't find the terrain too challenging.

For fuck's sake, they're mollycoddling me.

I could call them on it, and what could they say? Deny the truth? Because Christopher was right, damn and blast him. I'm not twenty any more, and however much I may turn and twist from the truth, the hard fact is that I'm not as fit as I ought to be, going out raiding.

I could, of course, concentrate on helping out with strategy. But I've already handed over everything I know, and there are plenty of bright minds who are already putting the information to good use. By now I'd imagine practically everything has been disseminated across the Empire, helping to undermine the grip of the tyranny on which it was built.

And my presence, my mere existence, endangers everyone who feels it their duty to look after me.

In the dark watches of the night, I face the fact that I've done all I safely and usefully can. That it's time for ex-General Malcolm Reed to finally vanish.

Liz will be happy with that, I know. We can find somewhere, some lost corner, where we can hide out and be a family; where I'll be just a husband and father, and we'll make a living somehow. People are always wanting things repaired, and I'm sure I can pick up a set of basic tools as a farewell present. We can end the way we started – making a difference in small ways, in small places, just making the little things better.

I'll have to change my name though. Too many people over the years have got to know my aliases.

'Charles' sounds nice. Yes, I'll have that. Surname? 'Stuart' could do. It's the name I've used since we went on the run.

'Charles Stuart'. Lucifer, talk about delusions of grandeur. Liz will laugh herself into convulsions. I'll tell her she'll have to be Henrietta-Maria Stuart, so she can just wrap her gob around that one. That should stop her giggling fast enough.

I sit back, smiling into the darkness. It's getting dark early now, and winter's got a solid grip around here; I won't be sorry to head south again, to the desert. Grandmother was getting a little frail when I left, I hope she's still OK, but she assured me there's a competent midwife in the village.

Of course, I hope Liz is OK too; we couldn't be absolutely sure how far along in the pregnancy she was. Sophisticated equipment like scanners are out of the question in a ramshackle place like that, and the little hand-held one that she's had since we fled Jupiter Station provides only spotty results at best and can't be relied upon for more than determining the chemical composition of things or the presence of living beings within a few yards – but we reckoned she was due about the middle of January. That gives me two weeks or so to get home in good time, even allowing a fortnight either way for safety. I think of her constantly, and most nights I dream about her, so that waking is very lonely. (Oddly enough, I never dream about the baby – I suppose mostly because I just can't imagine it.) She must be getting very round now, and the thought of that is very strange; she's so slender, I can't wait to see her belly all swollen up, and tell her how beautiful she looks.

=/\=

More shortly than I can believe possible, I'm on board a train for Nevada. I won't disembark at any of the big stations, of course; I'll choose a small one, where I can pick up a freight train. With so much money still being committed to the war effort – though from what I've gleaned from the occasional news broadcast, more of it these days is going towards defining and defending our borders than toward expanding them – nobody spends nearly enough on security. So, there are always one or two wagons that have rusty padlocks, and I can find my way inside with very little effort, just as I did with the one I'm already in. I have no objections to sharing quarters with a few sheep, though the tolerance appears to be one-sided to judge by their suspicious looks as they huddle at the other end of the wagon. I don't know what they're so pissed off about, it's not like I'm eating any of the hay.

I have very little baggage – a worn rucksack whose patches help keep in a single change of shabby clothing, and wrapped in these a set of serviceable tools that have also seen better days and will be unlikely to attract the attention of thieves. Though any thief unwise enough to take an undue interest in my property will still live to regret it, if they live at all. I may look as though I've seen better days even longer ago than what I'm carrying, but I still pack some small pieces of extremely sophisticated weaponry and my reliable little ivory knife hidden about me. Nobody is going to come between me and my family, or my ability to provide for them.

I manage to switch trains without event, though I end up sharing quarters with a lady tramp whose better days are even further behind her than mine. She offers to tell my fortune, but falls asleep half way through predicting that I'm going to travel a long distance, and sprawls beside me with her mouth open, snoring. She's wearing a dirty, torn suit that was probably elegant thirty years ago, and the neck of the open blouse displays three strands of tarnished silver hearts. Her sweaty buxomness reminds me, for no reason at all, of that little bitch Towneley. I wonder if she's still going, back in that comfort house, or whether she's been provoked into Pack behaviour again and quietly disposed of.

My fair companion wakes up after an hour or so, and gropes for a bottle hidden in some recess of her clothing. She glugs back a decent smack of the contents, and offers me one, which I refuse. Offended by the refusal, she swears at me and then starts to sing; her voice is surprisingly melodious for most of the time, though she forgets some of the words. After a couple of verses she pokes me with one forefinger and accuses me of not wanting to sing either.

"You wouldn't bloody complain if you'd ever heard me singing."

"Fuckin' miserable bastard," she slurs. "Don' wanna sing a Chris'mas song when's practic'lly Chris'mas..."

I don't rise to the bait, mostly because I can't be arsed to argue. She glugs a bit more, swears a bit more, sings a bit more, and finally nods off again. But long after she's drifted back into the arms of Morpheus, I can hear the words of the song running through my head.

'I'll be home for Christmas,

You can plan on me...'

Snow and mistletoe might be a bit much to ask for in the Nevada Desert, but I've got my present under the tree ready for me, the heart of my new life.

I can't wait to hold Liz again.

My beautiful, pregnant wife.

So, it looks like Christopher – and the evidence of his own eyes – got through to Malcolm, and Charles and Henrietta-Maria Stuart are going to disappear quietly into the mists of Imperial history. After everything he's been through and everything he's done, Malcolm has certainly earned it. Or do you think he owes the world more penance? After all, he was pretty terrible for a very long time.