Chapter 12: Desperate Times

Minnie and Mickey huddled together in the car of a train, gazing wistfully out at the countryside. The train's engine chugged comfortably along, its rhythm like a gentle heartbeat. Occasionally the couple glanced at each other, and, seeing the other's sadness, they hugged tighter still. The capital, which had been their home, was long behind them. Ahead was an ocean of the unknown, and neither felt prepared to face it. After a time, Mickey spoke.

"We should figure out where we're going," he said glumly.

"Where can we go?" asked Minnie. "They'll be looking for us everywhere. I don't even know how we'll afford food."

Mickey grimaced, and then took a deep breath. "I know you don't want to hear it, but there's one resource we haven't tapped yet."

Minnie thought for a moment and then looked Mickey in the eyes. "It'll be war."

"Maybe not," he answered. "We still hold a lot of the cards here. And the Whitegloves need us more than we need them. Maybe we can convince them to wait."

Minnie looked out at the fields of wheat that seemed to stretch on infinitely. She hummed a gentle tune and flipped through the slices for want of anything better to do. A million more horizons stretched on before her. She had access to more worlds than she ever had in her life, but she still felt trapped.

"I guess," she said at last. "I'm willing to try it, but we have to be careful. We just escaped, and it's not my intention to become prisoners again."

Mickey scanned the fourth dimension for anything that seemed useful. "Have you found a Whiteglove slice yet?"

"That's harder than you'd think," said Minnie. "There are a lot of frustrated people, and the line between Whiteglove and loyalist is vague."

"Then let's not go on feelings," said Mickey. "We should look for people who are at the center of it all. If the Whitegloves operate via independent cells that occasionally receive orders from the center, then we just need to find out who's giving the orders."

Minnie let her mind swim in the sea of information and tried to find a pattern. Mickey was right. Disgruntled anti-establishment rebel described a lot of people, but there had to be someone connecting all of them. If there was any kind of organized leadership, it should show up in the web of connections that linked people together.

"This is gonna take a while," admitted Minnie. "Let's find somewhere to lay low in the meantime."

George paced the floor of his living room in bitter frustration. He didn't know what the future held, but nothing he envisioned was good. In one fell swoop, he had lost his fourth dimensional sense, his fiancee, and his purpose. Donald hadn't come to call on him in a day and a half, and George felt like he was losing his mind. He was isolated from everyone except Miss Claire, who, if George was being honest, wasn't much for conversation. Inside he felt a rage building.

Why had it come to this? What could he have done differently? Was all of this his fault, or did none of it matter in the end. George knew he needed to find some meaning to it all, but he wouldn't find it here.

"I'm going out," he called to Miss Claire.

"Do you want me to come?" she asked, sensing that he was on edge.

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

George grabbed a cane and a pair of sunglasses from the closet and sighed. He had actually been getting used to not needing them. They weren't even really for him anyway, he could get around fine on his own, but they helped put other people on notice not to abruptly cut in front of him or do anything unpredictable around him. With fourth dimensional hearing, this wasn't as much of a problem. George tapped the cane angrily on the sidewalk as he began his journey.

At first he just walked around aimlessly, trying to make sense of the events of the previous weeks, but finally, he knew where he had to go. There was only one person he could talk to about this. Sophie was the only one who would understand, even if she didn't want to see him. She had to understand.

George rapped his knuckles on her door, and wished he could hear what she was feeling when the door swung open. Instead he heard only silence, until finally, she spoke.

"George…"

"Can I come in?" George asked weakly.

"Yes," said Sophie. George tried to hear any sort of inflection in her voice, but it was flat.

He followed her in and she guided him to a couch.

"First off, I just want to apologize," said George. "I shouldn't have turned them in, and I shouldn't have kept you out of the loop. I'm sorry."

Silence again. George felt the agony of wondering what Sophie was thinking or feeling. He imagined a hundred different responses. At last she said:

"I accept your apology."

"So what do we do now," said George. "I feel so lost. Where do we go from here?"

"What do you want to do?" asked Sophie. Her voice was tranquil.

George thought for a moment. "I want everything to be okay. I want to help Minnie and her husband, and I want us to live happily ever after, but I know that's not going to happen. No matter what I do, someone is going to get hurt. I don't even know that there's anything I can do anymore."

"You're thinking about this all wrong," said Sophie. "You're concerned with how it ends, but what about all the other parts? Is poetry only as good as its last verse?"

George frowned. She was right, but he felt like he wasn't going to be satisfied with her conclusion.

"Don't act because you think it'll make everything okay," said Sophie. "Act because it's what you want to do. Act because it's the right thing to do."

"But what does that mean? If you were in my shoes, what would you do?"

George couldn't see or hear it, but Sophie was taken aback. She had to think about it, but at last came up with an answer.

"I'd sacrifice the perfect life we planned. I'd throw it all away for a chance to have something I did mean something. Minnie needs our help. If we can help her, nothing else matters. I love you, but this is bigger than us."

"You want me to fight the regime?" asked George. "I don't even have the music anymore."

"I don't have all the answers," admitted Sophie, "but if I were you, I'd find a way to get back in the game, and then I'd risk it all. Come up with one big move and make it count. We used to talk about saving the world, remember? When we were kids?"

"Yeah," said George, "but now I'm not so sure it works that way. I don't think I can save the world."

"Maybe not," said Sophie, "but you've been given a chance to try. Don't waste it."

"I still don't know what to do," said George.

"You're smarter than me," said Sophie simply, "so I don't think I could come up with a plan that would be as good as what you could come up with. But I'm begging you to think bigger. It's not about you, and it's not about us. It's about everyone. Come up with a plan and don't be afraid to see it through."

George nodded resolutely. He was suddenly startled as Sophie wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. Tears fell across his cheeks. He would make this work. Somehow, he would come up with a plan. Not for us, he thought. For everyone.

Claudette sat by the fire of her stone cottage and heard her dog bark. That couldn't be good. She sighed. There was a pan of potatoes au gratin in the oven. If the regime was going to put a bullet through her head, she would have preferred they do it after she had eaten. Still, at this age, Claudette took life as it came, without much fuss. She grabbed her shotgun and lifted herself slowly out of the armchair. She was a hefty woman, and her bum hip didn't help matters much. Because of this, it took longer than she would have liked for her to shuffle to the rotting wooden door and throw it open.

Claudette was surprised as she squinted through the light of the setting sun at two figures approaching up the hill. They were within earshot, but not much closer. She glanced around. There was no one else for miles. Maybe it wasn't the regime after all. Still, she wasn't expecting anyone, which meant it had to be the regime.

"That's far enough," she shouted, leveling the shotgun.

Minnie called back in response. "Mama?"

Claudette squinted deeper still. Only a handful of people knew her as Mama, unless her cover was blown. Her mind turned to Francine and Carol. She hoped they were alive. If the regime knew who she was, at least one of them was probably dead.

"I ain't no one's mama," she called back.

"We need your help," shouted Mickey, his face grim.

"You best move along," said Claudette. "There's nothing for you here."

"I beg to differ," called Mickey. He took another step forward.

Claudette tensed her shoulders and raised the shotgun.

"We're not with the regime if that's what you're thinking," said Minnie, her voice desperate.

Claudette scoffed. Suddenly, a peaceful feeling swept over her body. It hit her like a stream on a hot day, forceful but refreshing. Her muscles started to relax without her knowing why. If there had been anyone to visit her in the last week, she would have suspected she had been drugged. Maybe I'm just getting old, she thought. Maybe I don't have much fight left in me anymore.

"If we were agents of the regime," continued Mickey, "shooting us wouldn't do much good anyway. Why don't you put down the gun and we'll talk."

Claudette sighed. He was right. Some days the fight felt pointless, and if it was finally her time, maybe it was for the best. She let the mysterious relaxing feeling permeate her and lowered the shotgun.

"Wipe your shoes on the way in."

It took a half an hour for Minnie and Mickey to explain the whole thing to her. Mama wore a skeptical expression the entire time. It was clear she thought they were lying to her, but she also couldn't tell why they would have any cause to lie. If they were part of the regime, they could just interrogate her, and if they weren't she couldn't think of any reason to tell such an absurd tale.

"Prove it," she said at last. "If you've really got this magical power, show me. Give it to me like you gave it to the others."

Mickey gave Minnie a questioning glance that told her he was nervous about fulfilling that request. Finding the leader of the Whitegloves had been his idea, so Minnie wasn't sure whether he was nervous because he didn't trust her or because he was worried it would get her imprisoned like all the others. Either way, she gave him a solemn, reassuring nod.

"This is going to be a little overwhelming at first. You might lose your vision for a bit."

"Hon, I've lost more than you could know. Lay it on me."

Minnie began to hum. For as hardened of a woman as she was, Claudette had to admit that she was a little frightened when it started. Anyone would be startled if everything suddenly went white, but once she got over the initial shock of it, she was afraid because it meant everything they said was true. This woman had invented something that would truly change the game. The era she had been waiting for was finally here, and it scared her.

It was well into the night when Minnie and Mickey finished introducing Mama to the wonders of the fourth spatial dimension. When they settled back into the nominal slice of reality, Claudette seemed frazzled.

"I'm gonna need some tea," she said, and shuffled over to put on a pot. They all sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts about the situation, and unsure how to bring them up to the group. Whenever anyone thought about talking, they decided against it, and sipped their tea instead. Finally, Claudette broke the silence in a cold, determined voice.

"We need to talk strategy."

Mickey smiled. Strategy was his forte.

"You came here because you wanted me to mobilize the troops, is that it? Start the war back up again?"

The couple grimaced. "No, actually," said Minnie, "we want to do this peacefully if possible."

Mama laughed. "So does everyone, dear."

She took a drink of tea and continued. "But I'm glad you haven't come here to ask me to declare war. You should know that we wouldn't win."

"What do you mean?" asked Mickey. "Even with the power of the music, you don't think you could win another revolution?"

"Do you know why I'm alive? Why I live here in this cottage?" asked Mama. Mickey shook his head.

"Because I was the designated survivor. I was one of three Whiteglove leaders when the war broke out. The first one, Mikael, died right at the outset. That left two of us."

Her face was suddenly old and tortured with the emotions of a heavy past. "Guillaume wanted to fight to the end. Even when it was clear that it was hopeless. He thought there was a point to sacrifice, even if you don't win. I thought different. I knew the Whitegloves might get another shot, maybe not for many years, but eventually. I knew this wouldn't be the last war. So I took it on myself to keep up the leadership and be ready when the next one started. I would live in secret and wait for my time."

"But that time never came, did it?" said Mickey, feeling a kind of kinship with the woman.

"No," said Claudette. "I've been forced many times to confront the fact that I probably won't live to see the next war. The regime is good at killing people. That's what it's designed for. We'll never be better. I wouldn't start another war until I know we would win, and even with this power and the resources we've accumulated in secret, we have no chance.

"You're right about the regime," said Minnie, "No one is better at killing people than they are. But this isn't a killing tool. This music is something else entirely."

Claudette looked Minnie in the eyes, as if analyzing her. She narrowed her eyes. "What was your plan to do with it? How did you see this ending?"

"If enough people have access to this power, the regime will lose a lot of its control over people," said Minnie. "Imagine instant communication with anyone, without the need for a radio. Imagine knowing how people are feeling and what they're thinking before they tell you. Imagine finding people like you scattered across the whole world, and feeling closer to them than to anyone in your neighborhood because you know exactly how similar you all are."

"It sounds like a nice world," said Claudette. "Or at least an exciting one. But it sounds like one that the regime is still in charge of."

"I'm not so sure," said Minnie. "Why would people let themselves be controlled by a government when they know they're not alone? When their community seems bigger than the government, why would they be afraid?"

"If I'm understanding you right," cut in Mickey, "you're talking about a bloodless coup. The people seizing power all at once without firing a single shot because they outnumber the regime."

"That's my hope," said Minnie. "After all, do we even know how many people would join the Whitegloves if they weren't afraid of being shot for it? Do we know how many people even support the regime? I have a theory."

"What's your theory?" asked Mickey.

"I think the people who genuinely want the regime to continue are very rare. I think most people are either Whiteglove sympathizers or they hate both sides and want a different system in place. If everyone realized that, then the regime would lose control. If everyone stopped following orders, there wouldn't be enough bullets for all of them."

"That's an idealistic assumption," said Claudette. "What makes you think you're right? Maybe the regime loyalists really do outnumber us."

"I don't know if I'm right," admitted Minnie, "But having seen the emotional landscape of the capital with these songs, I'm probably the best qualified person to make a guess at how much hatred for the regime there really is. I think it's worth a try."

"What's worth a try?" asked Claudette.

"I want everyone in the country to have access to the fourth dimension. If we can make that happen, I think it'll go down like you said, Mickey. A bloodless coup."

"If that's your goal, then this is really a question of logistics."

Mickey smiled again. He was starting to like this woman.

"You were sending letters anonymously through the post," said Claudette. "That's an incredibly inefficient way of doing things, because the regime controls the post."

"Could your Whiteglove cells distribute the songs?" asked Mickey.

"They could… for a time. The regime has probably infiltrated a great deal of them and is waiting for the right time to hunt them down. They don't want to lose their sources of intelligence, so they put sleeper agents in various cells. That's the whole point of using cells in the first place. If one of them goes down, it doesn't compromise the whole chain of command."

"But I guess the question is whether we could distribute enough papers to enough people before all of the cells were compromised." said Mickey.

"If you were talking about getting information to a small number of people, this would be different, but the whole country? That's impossible for my network."

"Maybe we could spread it through word of mouth?" wondered Minnie. "Tell everyone to tell everyone else?"

"It won't work," said Mama. "The second the regime gets wind of something like that they shut it down quick. We've tried it in the past. Once people start to realize all their neighbors are disappearing, they're not so keen on spreading a message."

There was a pause, as the three of them thought about the problem. Then Mickey's eyes lit up.

"We're thinking too old school. This is a new scientific achievement we're trying to share with the world. Why not share it with another new scientific achievement?"

Minnie broke into a huge grin. "Radio!"

Mama frowned. "It might work. It'll be difficult though."

"Why?" asked Minnie.

"Because the regime controls the towers that broadcast the radio signals. We'd have to take them over."

"Can you do that?" asked Mickey.

"For a time. It'll be easy for the first couple of days, but once the regime catches on, the only way to keep the towers will be by force."

Minnie grimaced. She looked at Mickey, trying to gauge his reaction. He was stone faced, but he could tell the idea bothered her.

"If it comes to that," said Mickey, "would you be okay with it? It would only be a temporary measure. Not a full scale war."

"I don't like it," said Minnie. "I don't like the idea of guns and bombs in the street. I want to do this peacefully if we can."

"And if we can't?" asked Mama.

"Then I reserve my right to decide when the time comes," said Minnie firmly.

The other two nodded solemnly.

"It's decided, then?" asked Mama. "We take the radio towers and distribute the songs that way?"

"For as long as we can," said Minnie.

"Things are going to change," warned Mama. "You gave out a handful of letters before. We're talking about thousands of people being exposed to this power."

"We have no choice but to accept change," said Minnie. "There's no going back now."

"We have to think about safety," said Mickey. "If we start broadcasting radio signals from a tower, the regime will know exactly where we are. If Minnie gets arrested, the game ends. I was lucky enough to be broken out of jail last time. Something tells me we won't get that lucky again."

Mama took a long sip of tea and leaned forward, deep in thought. "You're right. You two are far too valuable to risk. We can't allow you anywhere near the towers."

"But then how-" started Minnie.

"Do you own a record player?" asked Claudette.

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then you have your answer. So do the radio stations."

"You want me to put out a record?"

"I want you to put out a lot of records," said Mama. "One for each day. Then we'll copy them and send one to every tower in the country."

"Is that something you can do?" asked Mickey. "Don't you need a recording studio?"

"My dear Mickey, you'd be surprised at how many Whitegloves work in the music industry."

Mickey was only a little surprised.

Donald stood before the director of the Intelligence Bureau and tried to win an imaginary competition for most dejected expression. The director was at least in the running.

"I need you to explain this again," said the director. "I'm having trouble believing that a young woman, with no outside help whatsoever, single handedly broke a prisoner out from under our very noses."

"It's all in my report," said Donald, knowing full well that the director had only skimmed it. "That woman and her husband now represent the single largest threat to the regime. They've developed a technology with substantially disruptive potential. It was that technology that allowed the prisoner to escape."

"This is all a little far fetched. Psychic powers? That's your explanation?"

"Not exactly," said Donald. "The people who have access to this music can develop abilities that we associate with so-called psychics, but according to my consultant, it's all very scientific. It's no more magical than a steam engine."

"That's good to hear," said the director in a sardonic tone, "because it all feels very magical. How does a prisoner just walk out of prison?"

"Technically he was carried out," corrected Donald. "As I've put in the report, it appears that Mrs. Mouse poisoned one of the guards, and then used the ensuing confusion to switch their places. Her husband was taken to the hospital and simply walked out."

The director gave a disgruntled snort. "It sounds to me like we just let them escape, and this whole psychic powers thing is just a way for you to keep your job."

"You asked me to investigate the strange occurrences in the city. I've completed my investigation. There are a number of witnesses who all corroborate my story. This technology is real, and if we don't obtain it, none of us will have jobs soon."

"Alright, alright," said the director. "I believe you, relax. I'm putting in a request to the bureau of science to get a team of our top physicists on this. They'll get to the bottom of it. If it's a technology, they can reverse engineer it."

"From what I understand, you'll need music theorists on the team as well. The powers seem to be linked to music somehow."

"Understood," said the director. He gave Donald a mysterious look. "Just how dangerous do you think these two fugitives are to us?"

"Extremely. It is my recommendation that they be put at the top of the target list, above even the most dangerous Whiteglove insurgents."

The director leaned back in his chair. "You think they're working together? These two and the Whitegloves?"

"I don't know," admitted Donald. "To my knowledge, they don't have ties to any known Whitegloves, but them working together should be considered a possibility. If we find any connection we should crack down hard and fast."

The director smiled. "Excellent work as always, agent Canardino. I want you to stay on the fugitives until further notice. And send me that consultant you mentioned. The science boys might be able to use him."

"Yes sir."

Donald left the dimly lit office and sighed. There was another war coming, he could feel it. Maybe it was for the best. Either way, Donald was having trouble finding the usual pleasure in his work. Something about the way Mickey had confidently asserted how little everyone knew had shaken him. A part of him wanted to be wrong, but for over a decade now, Donald had believed the world was random and pointless. The thought that maybe he was wrong was too terrifying to confront right now. And there was work to be done.