Alistair lay on his bed devouring the penny pleaser, turning its yellowed pages with glee. Thus far, The Truth had been a ripping yarn of daring do and conspiracy, blood and mystery, fate and history. A lot of it made no sense to Alistair; he didn't know what the monarchy was let alone whom King William IV and George VII were. Before now he had had no idea that New Britain had once been called Great Britain or that the Civil War had actually been fought between the Loyalists – those loyal to the King and the Westminster System democracy– and the Futurists. From what Alistair could glean, the Futurists were repugnant, racist, intolerant, fear merchants that had opposed further dilution of the nation by others and steadfastly opposed the formation of Neuropa. They were about restoring England for the English, with fierce bigotry and a penchant for violence.

As Alistair mulled over this last point and it appeared like the Futurists never changed. Yet his grandfather talked of sacrifice and human spirit and was always banging on about pacifism. How could he have fought on the side of the Futurists Alistair wondered to himself, unless...

Jumping up, he darted to his grandfather's bedroom and quickly retrieved the tin box. Racing back to his own room, he dived back on his bed and vigorously rubbed the box until it began to glow softly. Holding the tin box next to the book a slight chill ran through him, as he matched the three lions logos of the tin box to the well-worn foil lions on the battered book cover.

What if...Alistair thought, connecting unrelated dots in his head and something just didn't add up. He read on.

For the boy, Celebration Day was a national holiday, a time for celebration and merriment. Here though, it was the Celebration Day: the day when the Futurists withered the Loyalist defences and came crashing through the Walls and conquered London. After twelve long years of Civil War, this was the end of democratic Great Britain. The anonymous author alleged the Loyalists had been betrayed by one of their own; with King George VII, preparing to evacuate the city via Essex aboard of a flotilla of French and Dutch boats, agreed to a ceasefire in a vain effort to protect his people. The agreed terms allowed all Londoners 48 hours to flee by any means, as upon the stroke of midnight June 17th 2038, the new Futurist rulers would put up the shutters, isolate the country from the rest of the world and embark upon a brisk restoration which included cleansing Great Britain of inhabitants and customs seen to be un-British whilst excising millions of British folk of their basic human rights and dignity. When the doors did re-open to visitors, New Britain awaited.

However, no sooner had the ink dried on the pact and the Futurists systematically executed every member of the Royal Family in the Tower of London. Within twenty-four hours this non-democratically elected Futurist Government of New Britain had King George VII's head staked and displayed outside the Tower of London and declared the Civil War over. By August, all mention of the Royal family was forbidden and their existence eradicated from the fabric of all facets of life. Any Loyalist pleb who did not agree with the new state of affairs was interred at the St Paul's Precinct and methodically denounced and summarily executed too.

Alistair realised that a day so momentous and calamitous could not have passed by without Archie noticing. And thinking of all those subsequent summers when New Britain had celebrated Celebration Day with displays of pomp and ceremony made Alistair ill in the stomach.

Ending the chapter, Alistair paused to catch his breath. If he had read on, the excitement was just beginning. The author outlined both the adventure of the loyal Ghost Ops vain attempt at a daring rescue of the King as well as how the Lion's Guard, known as the Ravenmaster, had dealt with the traitorous Nigel Hamilton. It would have kept him riveted but Delilah and Archie returned home. Delilah called his name with her shrill voice and he could hear her walking down the hall. Alistair slammed the book shut and in a panic, he lifted his mattress and sandwiched both book and tin box in-between mattress and base just as Delilah barged through the door and he dived back on to his bed.

The fabricant eyed him curiously, tilting her head. Alistair was flushed in the face and panting, and she stared in such a fashion that Alistair was sure she was scanning his brain to locate his deceit. She decided not to pursue any line of questioning and smiled glassily.

"I hope you weren't interfering with yourself," she warned. Then in a blink came over all domestic goddess. "Come now, I shall prepare your supper."

**********************

Archie joined Alistair at the kitchen table; the boy was greedily devouring scrambled eggs and facon, thickly buttered slices of toast, which he washed down with gulps of fresh milk. Delilah cursed the energy crisis making do with a little methane burner stove.

"For gawd's sake laddie, you're nae a pig," Archie chastised. Alistair slowed his assault and chewed his food. Archie was pleased to see his lad enjoy his supper; fresh milk was hard to come by but a milkman needing a comms device was willing to trade high. Archie and Delilah had done well stocking up on supplies that would see them in to January. As the Futurists had quartered the fuel rations, it wouldn't be long until the food rations were reduced. Archie coughed one of his cruel pea-in-a-whistle coughs and wiped away spittle from his lips. In the back alleys, there were whispers and Archie knew keeping a low profile would be prudent though if things worked out as he hoped, they'd be long gone before the fun began.

"You finished your homework?" Archie enquired, drawing himself a drink and Alistair nodded. "And your chores, eh? No messin' aboot?"

Alistair shook his head. "No sir, no messing about."

"Sir?" Archie smiled at Delilah, chuckling. "Well I can see your wee computer tutor has been training you well. A wee bit o' respect cannae hurt, nor will his sort of discipline."

"Pop...what does 'ich bin ein Englander' mean?"

Archie, stunned, sat bolt upright and Alistair proffered a second question.

"And who were the Loyalists?" Alistair asked naively as Archie choked on his drink. Alistair was surprised with the reaction.

"Keep your voice down," Archie said in a steamy half-whisper. "Where have you heard of Loyalists?"

"So you know who King George VII and the Loyalists were?" Alistair probed and Archie gulped for air. "I'm curious: were you a Loyalist?"

"Curiosity killed the cat," Delilah said coldly, however, Archie was having none of this conversation; the impromptu discussion was ended with a filthy and furious glare. Awkwardly uncomfortable, Archie coughed, his face blazing red, almost as if he was about to have a fit.

"You...you keep your mouth shut," Archie demanded angrily as he stood up, clutching his chest.

"Pop?" Alistair said but the old man tottered to his feet, agitated and leaned forward with clenched fists.

"Don't say another word, lad...not one more word!!!" Archie seethed looking Alistair squarely in the eye. "Never mention such things in my house...NEVER! Am I clear?"

"I don't understand," Alistair responded, genuinely confused. Archie raced in to the living room and hastily stubbed his thumb on a communicator jammer. The old man was a man possessed and he pulled his hair and chewed his lip, desperate to instigate damage control.

"Alistair...not one more word," Archie begged.

"But pop," Alistair cried and Delilah held the boy back as Archie stormed back in to the kitchen and tried to throttle his grandson.

"No more. Not now, not ever. That stupid war has been run and won and your kind of talk leads to nothing but trouble. Do you understand?"

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" Archie roared as he grabbed Alistair by the shoulders and shook him violently. "With talk like that, you'll have every bloody Agent of Change on our doorstep. For Lord's sake, think before you utter one more word."

Archie wheezed as Delilah loosened the man's grip on the boy and squeezed between the two of them, protecting Alistair who ignored his grandfather and blurted.

"I've been reading a book called The Truth," Alistair disclosed. Enraged, Archie hurled over the kitchen table in fury. The food and drink spilt, as the plates and glasses smashed on the kitchen floor and Balderick flapped about in a fit of conniption. The old man grabbed Alistair by the scruff of his collar and pinned him against the kitchen wall. Choking on raw emotion, Archie brought Alistair face-to-face.

"For God's sake Alistair, not another word. NOT ONE MORE DAMN WORD!"

Delilah intervened; she yanked Alistair away, positioning her body between the man and the boy and Alistair could hear Delilah clicking and whirring in a way he had never heard her do so before.

"Archie Raven, cease and desist," she ordered in a strong, authoritarian voice.

"You'll get yourself killed," Archie warned. "He'll get us all killed."

"I won't caution you again," Delilah ordered. "You know what I am capable of."

Archie settled.

"Alistair had to find out eventually," Delilah conceded. "It was never going to stay a secret forever."

"No, he didn't," Archie spat, holding up a finger and thumb close together. "We're this close."

"I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that..." Alistair apologised and Delilah and Archie both yelled at him.

"QUIET!"

Alistair was taken aback and suddenly, his teenage hormones came to the fore and his frustration boiled over.

"I'm not a baby,' Alistair confirmed. "I just want answers."

"There are no questions and there are no answers," Archie countered. "And if there were, you're too young and far too naïve to handle the truth."

Upset, Alistair said the first thing that came in to his confused and angry head.

"I hate you," Alistair vented.

"What would you know of hate?" Archie snorted. "You're still a boy. Think of the repercussions of what you say aloud."

"I hate you," Alistair yelled again, unable to find anything else to say.

"You're not the first, believe me," Archie replied unflinchingly. "All your yap about the war...you don't know anything about it. I've seen things, done things...only you could dream of in the darkest recesses of your worst nightmares. You'll never understand what I've been through..."

"I bet you were a coward during the war. And now you're a sad old man," Alistair jeered, uninterested in listening to one more lecture from his grandfather. Delilah was aghast.

"Alistair Raven...take that back!" Delilah demanded, but it was too late. Even though he had hurled his words in anger, Alistair quickly realised he regretted them, but he refused to concede an apology. Archie's shoulders sank; his rattly wheezing the only sound in the room.

"Better a coward than dying a hero," Archie eventually said softly, the sting of his grandson's insult cutting to the core.

"Alistair, I suggest you go to your room," Delilah ordered. "And think about your apology!"

Alistair stood his ground in defiance. "Apology? All I asked were simple questions. What's the big secret?"

"I said to go...now," Delilah demanded. Disobediently he waited and Delilah twitched; her arm began to tremble and Delilah did well to contain her ire.

"If you do not apologise to your grandfather and if you don't go to your room, there will be serious repercussions."

"I'm not sorry," Alistair declared. He pushed past both of them and skulked to the safety of his bedroom, calling out defiantly. "I don't see what the big deal is!"

Alistair slammed his bedroom door shut, shaking the flat. Archie moved to the sink and spat heavy phlegm down the sink hole and tried desperately to regain his composure.

"Archie Raven," Delilah said solemnly, "that is no way to treat the boy."

Ashamed, he moved away from the sink and picked up the kitchen chair and the overturned table. Reaching for the bottle of whiskey, he swigged, trying to calm himself.

"He's a wisp of a lad...I don't want him getting involved with any of this nonsense," Archie told Delilah as he took another hearty swig. "It's all too dangerous. Even talking about it in the open...you don't know who's listening. The bastards are everywhere. It was my war...I live with the consequences. He's innocent and I want to keep him that way."

Delilah spoke in muted tones.

"You can't keep him innocent forever. And you say you want to protect him, do you think physical violence will save him?" she chastised. "Come now, it will only turn him away, and that's the last thing either of us want. I've never been so ashamed; scaring him to death is no way to deal with his questions. Your behaviour is nothing short of repugnant. You're acting crazy."

"Bah!" Archie spat. "Crazy has nothing to do with it."

"Hiding it all away is one thing. But he's got questions. You're not getting younger and you're lungs aren't getting any better. You've been in denial for thirty years. You can't die without telling him everything. Alistair needs to know what you did."

"What good would it do him," Archie argued. "Reading dribble in a nonsense book is one thing, but telling him the truth...the real truth...that's akin to giving the lad a death sentence."

Delilah paused. "Pushing him away won't help. You and I can protect him for only so long. He won't be a boy forever. One day he will have to know. And then what?"

"I can't lose him," Archie sniffled. "I lost Andy and I swore I wouldn't let it happen again."

"Be honest with him, he's a smart boy," Delilah countered. "He will hold his tongue."

"A few more days, that's all I ask. If the meeting tomorrow works in our favour, we won't have to worry. We'll be high-tailing it out of London and I'll tell him all then."

"What happens if you're wrong? It is a giant leap of faith to be taking Archie," Delilah warned. "How do you know you can trust this contact?"

Archie drained the dregs from his whiskey bottle, and puckered his lips.

"Watch over Alistair," Archie warned in a whisper. "If he thinks he knows what the truth is, then he's already in more trouble than he realises."

Delilah glared back at Archie, and subtly suggested: "Perhaps it's time for the person who knows the truth to tell him their side of the story then."

**********************

Alistair sat on his bed then jumped up and jammed his meagre belongings in to his backpack; there wasn't much to pack and he dived back on his bed, knitting his hands behind his head. Staring at the ceiling, he moved again, and started twanging the rubber of his slingshot, seething. Perplexed, his stomach twisted in a knot, and he churned a number of thoughts through his head all at once.

He was so angry, he had ideas of stowing away on any Airship where he could ride the wild winds and live life on the razor's edge. He closed his eye, made target, pulled the empty slingshot back and fired an imaginary shot.

TWANG!

When I'm gone, he'll be sorry Alistair thought.

What's his problem anyway?

He twanged the slingshot again.

I don't care what he says...what would he know about the Civil War anyway...sitting behind a desk whilst the battles were being fought without him?

Tossing aside the slingshot, his mind wandered; rolling over, he closed his eyes and dreamt of better days.

Sometime later, Archie crept in to Alistair's bedroom. Alistair murmured and Archie pulled the blanket over his grandson to keep his warm then placed his weathered hand on the boy's head and softly patted him back to sleep.

"I'm sorry lad, one day I will confess," Archie whispered contritely. "This I do promise: I'll nae lay a hand in anger upon you again."

Alistair curled up in the blanket, a sleepy smile curling just the corners of his lips. Archie wondered how it could have been that in a blink of an eye Alistair had grown up and he had not realised. He remembered a time when he used to soothe his own son to sleep and Archie felt a regretful lump forming in his throat.

The old man left the boy to slumber. It would be the last night Alistair would sleep in his bed. In years to come, he would fondly remember his grandfather and their life together. Time would come to heal his bruises and blur the tough times of New London life but there were many adventures to be had between now and then.

As Alistair slept soundly, unbeknownst to him, trouble was coming a-knocking and it wasn't your everyday garden-variety kind of trouble either. He'd opened a can of worms and Alistair Raven would soon learn that everything he thought was true was actually one big, fat lie.