Chapter 4

Roger slowly walked out onto the open square, where, not long before, Bluefields' youngsters had played kickball. Someone had built an improvised stage with boxes, and this Roger climbed. With him, was his partner of some 40 years, Sean Beth. He waited patiently while the noise from the growing throng before him abated.

In the front row of the assembled Duruttis he saw Charity, looking defiant, but clearly upset. Megan Sion, partner of Mikele and Reged's son, Nor, held her hand tightly. He saw his daughter Sian - his fortunate 'mistake' - standing with Kroon and managed a wry grin. On Sian's other side was her inseparable 'sister' Gina, Rada's daughter, together with Faith, Thane, Nor, and a dozen others he counted as 'family.' His own very good friend Mikele stood with his partner Reged no more than two metres away. 'This', he thought, 'is what really matters.' George should, and would, be returned or Cityplex will burn.'

"My friends and family," he said. "I'm glad so many of you came - and are still coming - from the scattered areas of the Duruttis. I have a personal message from Delios and the Montseny's expressing outrage at George's disappearance, and a vow we can count on every single able bodied member of his band."

There followed an applause and Roger waited until it died down. "George, who serves as a Black Guard senior, has been pledged the whole hearted support by none other than Suetonius, himself. Gina, of course, has pledged the full support of the mighty Bakhunins and Garcians, Kropotkins, the Makhnovistas, Connollys, Nins and a dozen other bands have asked how they can help." Some people started to clap, but Roger held up his hand. "Our plan is simple. We will concentrate at Novgorod and move on Cityplex until George is returned to us."

There was a round of huzzahs and cheers. Meanwhile, a boy ran up wearing a Black Guard scarf and handed Roger a note. He read it quickly, before shushing the crowd once more. "I have a message from the Bakhunins in Cityplex. This morning, squads of Guardians attempted to attack them in the old town. Istvan, their spokesman, reports they were repulsed, but are regathering for another attack. People, we must hit this 'Company' economically, politically and physically. This 'Company' that seems to have involvement from the upper elite of Cityplex. This 'Company' that has no other interest but profit. Now, three more Bakhunin floegs are on their way. I want a full squad of fighters based in the camp Rasida and Schecter have constructed at Good Hope. From there, they will seek out the company's mines and close them down. Gina, are you on speaking terms with Sian?"

"Of course, Roger," Gina reddened.

"You two take Kroon and link up with Rada and John somewhere in the Gulf of Memphis. A floeg is going to ferry out a Montseny autocannon for you to bolt to the deck of a little free trawler they have, ah, acquired. Your mission is to drive the Company's shipping off the seas and hit their supply line, a railway, that runs along the East Coast. This will happen regardless of whether George is found or not. This trading in the unfortunate victims of Cityplex's prosperity on Ark Preserve is going to stop."

There was more applause, until Roger held up his hand again. "Mount up, everybody, on horse, floeg and, yes, even the Varyag. Friends, once more we're going to war!"

Kroon stood scratching his jaw in the middle of the swirl of activity. He didn't quite understand why he was being taken along. He'd never fired a rifle before and the girls' needle guns were a mystery. He so wanted to be useful in this thing that, in a way, he'd started but, he didn't know quite how.

"Coming, Kroon?" Sian asked, and smiled.

"What do I do?" he asked.

"First, get into the floeg over there. You, heard, we're going to find Rada and John."

"Then, what?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I actually do?"

"Hell, I dunno. Have you handled explosives?"

"Sure, some."

"There you go. You'll be our saboteur. We need someone to help us blow the railway."

"I can do that," Kroon brightened.

"See? C'mon?"

Later that morning, the Varyag arrived and moored. Quickly, it was loaded with ammunition and supplies for Good Hope. By the afternoon a fluttering of floegs arrived from Novgorod until they numbered seven. These were loaded with troops and supplies - all, for Rasida and Schecter's base in the Eastern Islands. Eventually, another arrived with an autocannon slung underneath. It landed to await a signal from Sian they'd located the free trawler.

Through all this, of course, George was completely oblivious. As the sun streamed into the porthole of the fetid locker, he was able to take in his surroundings. The room was crowded and squalid. He tried to take a head count but gave up, but he figured about thirty. He was dressed in a rough shirt of ecru, now stained with his own sweat and muck. The smell was indescribable, the sounds, of gentle whimpering and moaning of the mostly teenaged boys, was pathetic to his senses. He wondered what kind of person would do this to fellow human beings.

He reckoned about midday, a hatch opened above them. A cascade of water bottles and lumps of stale bread were chucked down at them. These, the boys fought over like savages. He tried to grab a bottle, but his wrists were chained so tight he couldn't reach. Then, the fellow next to him offered his.

"Sir?" the boy said, meekly. George nodded his appreciation, and took a swig.

"What's your name?" he asked his new friend.

"Robert, sir," he replied.

"George," he said in return.

"Do you know where we're going?" the boy asked, his voice tremulous and frightened.

"Not sure," George replied. "To the mines, I guess."

"What mines?"

"Eastern Islands. They're mining coal, there."

"What are these mines like?" he asked.

George would like to have told the lad the truth - that the mines were gassy and dangerous, with few safety precautions. He should have told him his life expectancy wasn't very good. If the boy had been an Ark, he would've deserved the respect of being told the truth. But, George couldn't do it. Instead he shrugged and told him he'd be all right.

"How old are you?" George asked.

"16, sir."

"16?" At 16 and Ark is autonomous with all the rights and responsibilities of an adult. This lad, however, seemed a child by comparison - a frightened, helpless, vulnerable child looking for an adult to look after him. "Where are your folks?" he asked.

"I don't know," he replied, miserably.

An hour or so later, George heard the thumping of the engine begin to subside. Soon, he heard the bumping of the fenders through the hull as the boat was brought to a pier, somewhere. Soon, the top hatch opened and sunlight flooded in, blinding them all in the glare. A rattle of chains saw them released from the anchors on the wall. A ladder was lowered and men above began shouting. Gradually, the boys stirred and slowly ascended the ladder to the hatch.

"Get a move on," came a shout above. "Move your pinky, white arseholes."

It was soon George's turn, and he climbed painfully to the top after Robert. Through the hatch, he squinted against the glare as he was roughly shoved into some sort of line.

"You're a fucking big bastard!" someone said into his face and jerked his wrist chains. George opened his eyes and stared straight into his tormentor's face. He was swarthy, fat, unshaven, with a breath to match. "What are ya staring at, arsehole?" he snarled.

"I'm trying to figure," George replied. "I think a hog by the smell."

The man suddenly jabbed a silver baton into his stomach. George felt a crippling pain that doubled him up, almost paralyzing his legs at the same time. George remained stooped until the pain eased up.

"Get up, arsehole," the man snarled, again.

George slowly exhaled his breath, gathering the power he knew dwelt in his lower body. He gripped his hands together and sensed the man standing over him. In one fluid movement, he sliced upwards with his clenched fists so his wrist chains took the man full in the face. The power in George's stroke knocked the guy backwards, over the side of the pier and into the water.