The Wars That We Fight

Chapter Eight

(Author's note: Hello! Here's another chapter for you! We encourage you as always to vote and comment. Do you like the writing style? Any improvements we could make? Things you like or dislike? We'd love to hear any thoughts you might have! Even if you don't, thank you so much for reading this far in, as we appreciate it a lot! We hope you enjoy!

- E and A)

Gregory had a clear sightline from the living room to the front hall of his house so, when a neat, clean knock came at the vast, wooden door, he lifted his eyes to see a broad shouldered woman and an urbanely dressed man in crisp, navy uniforms. He could see the glint of their smooth, metal pins, which were indistinctly either gold or silver, indicating they were low ranking Olegates or high ranking Malplian. They were in government uniforms. He had moved his gaze to the doorway in a casual, half-curious movement, but it latched onto the two dark figures when he first caught sight of them, making his skull incapable of the slightest movement.

He saw his father's hand slip from the door handle and watched as he greeted the visitors. Mr. Ribbel glanced back at Gregory briefly, revealing his face, friendly and steeped in a well-practiced charisma, but incapable of hiding the slight inclination of his eyebrows, or the intensity of the muscles around his jaw, and the wideness of his eyes. The strangers in the uniforms entered, their mouths unsmiling, their arms stiff beside the pistols which dangled from each belt.

Gregory had heard of these visits. They were always quiet, peaceful events, sparing those involved from unnecessary violence and impersonal, careless application of the law. They were a privilege reserved for the most powerful, best ranking members of society. He had heard of the traitors, their loose lips and impulsivity, their martyrdom, and had never imagined more than in passing that he might oneday witness the authorities through their eyes. He had imagined in moments of fantasy and idolization that perhaps they would say eloquent, beautiful words defending their acts, defending old fashioned heroism and their cavalier method of seeing it through. Yet, in moments he felt love for strict justice and order, seeing their acts as betrayal of the state to other forces, and in those moments, Gregory had felt the blood in his veins seem to turn and flow in the opposite direction. But now he was neither disgusted nor righteous.

Mr. Ribbel was repeating, "Come, I'm sure we can be reasonable. Honestly, there must be some mistake." At first, he had maintained a calm demeanor, his frankness affirming his innocence, but he now became flustered, reddening his features, which had previously been pale.

"There is no mistake. A treasonous letter has been traced to your house."

They had traced it? How? Well, in any case, they knew now. Gregory realized that the words of martyrdom he had crafted in his imagination were speeches made for a moment like this. They had found him out, and now it was too late. But how? Was there more than censorship, more than the hospitals? What kind of surveillance or technology could have revealed it to be him. Not a single eloquent word was in his mind.

"Mr Ribbel, please come with us," the man said, his tone soft and civilized.

They wanted his father? Then their technology was faulty. They had gotten it wrong. Whatever it was—an analysis of the paper, or the ink, or the postage stamps, convoluted ways of discovering the household that had sent the letter, but not the individual, ways running through Gregory's fantasy—whatever it was they had gotten it wrong.

Mr. Ribbel looked at Gregory again. A treasonous letter. The print of Gregory's article was reflected in his eyes, and immediately subdued him.

"Alright. I'll come quietly." And the entire front hall reeled away from Gregory, the room stretching further into space and time with Mr. Ribbel and the officers.

Heroism. Gregory wished he had the mighty speech of heroes in his throat now, but knew that in times of true danger where words are the most powerful, though perhaps ineffective, he never did know what to say.

"No, Dad! No. Oh, God, no, it was me!" He shouted before they had reached the door, and it was all he could manage to say. Mr. Ribbel's calm acceptance, his resignation, had turned to horror, his face shifting in grief so that his nose almost seemed to slide halfway up his face as his eyebrows jumped and his muscles pulled everything up towards his receding hairline.

He was still for a moment.

The authorities paused.

Then Mr. Ribbel said, "No, my boy. Don't try and save me. You're young. Live the life you have in front of you, but don't try and defend an old traitor like me. G—Gregory, you know—know how much I love—"

"The gall of the government to pretend, and to convince the general populace, that these hospitals are meant for the good of Senvalorates is more than insulting. It is atrocious," Gregory interrupted. "There. See, I know what was in that letter, word for word, because I wrote it. My dad had nothing to do with it. Ask him. He won't know even who it was addressed to. But I can remember everything I wrote, more or less just like I wrote it, and no one else knew about it."

Mr. Ribbel had perhaps the smallest of tears, barely visible, forming in the corner of his eye.

Then the broad shouldered woman said, "Please come this way, the both of you. We will finalize this investigation at the processing centre."

They drifted out towards the driveway, dizzy, and slid into the back of a small and unmarked black car. Mr. Ribbel squeezed Gregory's hand for half a second.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he said.

"I know. But it's okay. It's okay."

***

They were now in the process of pouring concrete to form the foundation of the next hospital. Audra hurried past, preferring not to reflect on her memories of the riot she had walked through, or her knowledge of what these hospitals meant.

She was travelling to the old factory loading bay once again, her belief that she would find a response from Simone weaker than ever.

She arrived by the wall, noticing first the change that was unignorable. Large machines, with caterpillar tracks and strange limbs for construction, or digging, or perhaps tearing things down, were resting unattended farther towards the other end of the loading bay. Spray paint streaked indiscriminately over the brick and even the ivy, likely marking where to begin to destroy the unwanted structure. Audra wondered what they were building here. Surely not another hospital, but perhaps a school or an apartment complex like the Zero Council had proposed. This didn't seem so horrible to Audra. They would provide housing, better than what had been there before, to all the Senvalorates who had been displaced by the hospital. Yet the EDFC condemned anything like this, which seemed uncalled for, to her. She could think of no ulterior motive for building better housing. There was some goodness left in politics, wasn't there? She looked around at the unused land, sitting coldly and phantom-still on the edge of a past world, the extinct world of War. The world of factories, like this one, which must have been something like a munitions factory, having been closed down at the end of the War like all the rest, and now a testament to how conflicts of this calibur were left to the past, to be destroyed, demolished, wiped out, and to have lives and peace built on top instead.

Then she pulled her eyes away from the painted lines on the brick and found where she had been corresponding with Simone. At last there was something:

You can see we can no longer carry this on here for long, but I think it's still important for me to pass on what it means to be more than a number. Meet me at the Central South Ninth Sector Gate on the 2nd, at noon, or on the 5th if you can't make it. You can bring anyone with you. Don't be afraid.