obvious wounds.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said with the calmest voice he could manage.
He looked over to his shoulder and spotted a pool of dark blood nearby. He leaned in for a closer look. As expected, it was from a shoulder wound, quite a deep one. He tore off part of his shirt and tied it around the wound area.
“Serious?” asked Gryllus.
“Not sure,” he replied.
As he attached the cloth, he tried to find where the entrance wounds were. It looked like nothing had passed through the body, yet the puddle of blood was still substantial. He started to panic, worrying there might be a severed artery or body part he couldn’t see due to the rubble and dust all around them. The noise outside had started to subside, and he could only hope the attack or whatever it had been was now over.
“Son, come here,” said Gryllus with a weak voice.
Xenophon leaned in but continued to look for injuries.
“Listen, it was Montoya and her guards. Some of us wanted to stand down. She shot two, then a bomber ran in.”
“What, how were you hurt?”
“I tried to fight them off, but one had a vest with explosives. He must have detonated it inside the building.”
“Why? Did Montoya let him inside?”
Gryllus shrugged.
“I don’t know. There’s something else, she said more would be here.”
His eyes flickered, and then he passed out. Xenophon couldn’t tell if it was related to the injury, pain or exhaustion. Glaucon staggered over to the two and bent down to help.
“We need to get out of here. This isn’t my people. It must be a revolutionary group we haven’t come across.”
“Maybe, but I bet Montoya is behind it. Take out the Thirty, she can blame whoever she wants and try and claim asylum.”
“Maybe, or she might be looking to regroup and was removing the competition.”
A dull crump from an explosion shook the building’s foundations. Dust and small chunks of stonework fell to the ground. The two men reached down to the old man and between them lifted him up. He wasn’t heavy, but it took time for them to drag his wounded figure to the ruptured wall. As they moved, the sound of a battle became louder.
“He was right, somebody is coming here. We need to get out of this place and fast!” said Glaucon.
They pushed on and out through the breach. Outside, the dust had turned to smoke from dozens of fires burning through the old buildings. They moved on past a number of dead security guards and down the gentle path that led to the transit station. A dozen heavily armed guards ran past them but paid no attention. Something changed in their wounded patient. Xenophon stopped and looked down to his father.
“What is it?” asked Glaucon.
“He’s stopped moving. Put him down.”
They lowered him to the floor, and Xenophon placed his jacket under his dust-covered body. He leaned over and placed his ear over the man’s mouth. He waited for a few seconds then jumped up in a panic.
“He isn’t breathing!” he exclaimed.
Glaucon already had his fingers on the man’s wrist, checking for a pulse. He looked up to Xenophon and shook his head. Xenophon ripped open his shirt and started to massage his heart as he’d learnt years before. Glaucon looked for further signs of injury before he slipped back and slumped to the floor. Xenophon kept pumping away, but to no avail. He glanced over to Glaucon to see him slumped on the floor with a bitter expression on his face. He looked up at Xenophon with an almost apologetic look on his face.
“It’s too late, forget it. He’s been shot four times in the back, the bastard!”
Xenophon bent down and rolled his father slightly to the side to find more blood dripping from behind him. He moved him further and tore back the clothing to reveal the entry wounds. His analytical mind was already trying to understand why there had been no exit wound. Only a pulse weapon placed all of the energy and damage in the target area.
“Laconian weapons,” he sighed.
He rolled his father back and looked at his face. The blood had already drained from his skin, and his eyes were dull and lifeless. There were no visible marks on his face, but the trauma to his body was obviously more substantial than it looked.
“What can we do?” asked Glaucon, but his tone was resigned, almost defeatist.
“It’s pulse weapons all right. If they hit skin, they disrupt tissue around the wound. Nothing can be done to fix that kind of damage.”
He looked back to the broken body of his father.
“He’s gone.”
Another group of security guards ran past. This time they were armed with standard Alliance equipment. Xenophon recognised them as members of the city militia forces.
They must have been called up to deal with the unrest.
A series of blasts ripped through the damaged Ecclesia, and several large chunks of masonry flew across the sky. It reminded Xenophon of the final battle on board the Valiant. Images of the explosions and flashes on that poor ship were burned into his mind, and they rushed back vividly. A shock wave of surprising intensity rippled from the structure, and the outer wall finally gave way under the pressure.
“I don’t like this, come on!” shouted Glaucon.
The two stood and Xenophon reached down to drag the body of his father. Glaucon put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He was about to speak, but from the ruined Ecclesia, a dark crowd of people appeared. They pushed through the smoke and towards the thin line of security reinforcements.
“We don’t have the time, you know this. It’s the mob, and they want revenge. Any member of the Thirty is fair game right now.”
Xenophon looked down as his father one last time and back to Glaucon.
“I know, but she’s going to pay for this.”
Glaucon staggered away, and Xenophon quickly caught up and placed his friend’s arm around his neck so that he could take some of the weight. They moved past three parked security vehicles, and then it was as if nothing had happened. The plaza near the transit station was sealed off, and only four guards were anywhere in sight. They continued towards the entrance to the station and moved inside. The computerised security unit scanned their retinas as they entered and gave them automatic access to the public transport system. Inside the structure was radically different to the classically designed civic buildings that filled the centre of the city.
“We’ll take a car,” said Xenophon.
He led the way through the station and towards a ramp that took them down a gentle gradient. At the bottom waited a dozen small vehicles, each about five metres long and cylindrical in shape. He moved to the one at the front of the queue and approached the side. It was already open and exposed to reveal a light leather style interior, gently lit with soft lights. He jumped inside and pulled Glaucon in beside him. The gull wing shaped door slid down quietly behind them, sealing them into the public cab. From the inside, it looked more like a private lounge with comfortable seating and wide windows.
“Destination?” asked the faceless computer system.
Glaucon looked to Xenophon then spoke.
“Attica Main Terminal, take the expressway.”
“Thank you, our estimated journey time is seven minutes.”
With an almost unperceivable hum, the vehicle moved from the waiting area and onto the narrow road surface. Other vehicles made their way along the road with military precision. In Attica, it was illegal for manual control of vehicles on public highways. The overwhelming majority of the vehicles on the road were actually haulage and heavy load carriers, each making their way to a myriad of destinations and carrying a great variety of cargos.
“Main Terminal?” asked a confused Xenophon.
