The Last Stand - Brad Ferguson [74]
The four of them—Data, Ro, a young man and the old woman—were seated in the middle of the small underground shelter, surrounded by crates and barrels. “She’s beginning to get on my nerves,” the man suddenly said.
“Excuse me, Tarrajel?” Ro asked.
“I said—oh, never mind,” he said, sighing and waving a hand. “That was rude of me, Fessalahka,” he said to Ro. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. The old lady can’t help it. It’s just that some of the old folks still buy into all the crap the monks used to sell, and I’m tired of hearing about it.” The young man shifted his weight and frowned more deeply. “I wonder when we’ll be able to get out of here? This has been a pretty long alert. I wonder when they’re coming?”
“This may be merely a drill,” Data said.
“I hope you’re right, Porratorat,” Tarrajel told him.
“He might be,” Ro said. “We haven’t heard any explosions or anything.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean much,” Tarrajel said. “The Krann could be vaporizing the other side of the world. We’d never know.”
“Perhaps we could leave the shelter,” Data said. “I would like to go outside and look around. Perhaps we could learn something.”
Tarrajel snorted. “The only thing you’d learn, my friend, is that being out on the street during an alert is a shoot-on-sight offense, like everything else is these days. Say, I saw somebody raising an illegal banner over the avenue just before I came down here. Did they catch anybody?”
“I do not know,” Data replied. “The banner was cut down, but I did not see the authorities apprehend anyone.”
“Well, that’s good,” Tarrajel said, settling back. “I don’t have any use for the old religion, but I don’t want to see anybody wind up in the hands of the police, either—not for putting up a sign, anyway. There are better reasons to go to jail.”
The old woman stopped mumbling and opened her rheumy eyes. She wagged a finger at Tarrajel. “Prepare!” she said urgently. “The agents of vengeance are coming, and there can be no escape!”
“Prepare how?” Ro asked politely. “Please tell me.”
The old woman looked at her suspiciously. “You’re no Follower,” she said. “Few of you young people are.”
“No, I’m not a Follower,” Ro said, putting on her most sincere look. “But I bear Followers no ill will, and I really want to know how to prepare for what’s to come. The banner we’ve been talking about warned us to prepare. I’d like to know what that means.” The ensign took the old woman’s hand. “What’s your name, mother?”
The old woman smiled timidly. Ro saw that she didn’t have very many teeth, and the few she had were not in good shape. “Ilsewidna,” she answered. “I work here. I work for the landlord. I clean up inside the building.”
“Hello, Ilsewidna,” Ro said. “I am Fessalahka, and this is my spouse, Porratorat.”
“How do you do?” Data said politely.
“Do you already know the heretic in here with us?” Ilsewidna said sourly.
“My name is Tarrajel,” the young man said. “I practice law. I have an office in the building. I see Ilsewidna just about every day. Hello again, mother.”
“Don’t you call me that,” Ilsewidna grated. She refused to look at him. “You’re always calling me that, and you’re no son of mine.” She held up her book and shook it approximately in Tarrajel’s direction. “You mock the truth,” she said, nodding vigorously. “You mock it with your disbelief, even when the truth is all around you, even when it is about to strike you dead. Well, it’s all in here, every bit of it, no matter what the government says, or how many of us they imprison and torture.”
“As you say, Ilsewidna,” Tarrajel said mildly. “The truth is yours.”
Ilsewidna moved closer to Ro. “Daughter,” she began, “have you ever been given the truth? Was your mother a Follower? Or your grandmother, perhaps?”
Ro shook her head. “I’m afraid not, mother. I’ve never even heard of this book before.”
“How terrible for you,” Ilsewidna clucked. “What a wicked world this has become.” She held the book up. “When I was a little girl, we had to read from the book for two hours each night after our work