Part 2 - Chatter 4

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Tiptoeing through the Bakerloo Underground line, the ghostly glow of his night vision played tricks with his mind, and Alistair jumped at shadows. Clinging to the grimy tunnel walls, Alistair's subterranean route facilitated an avoidance of unsympathetic Guards scouring the city while wily rats scurried along with him, circumventing the pulse torches and stomping boots.

Coming upon Queen's Park Station, Alistair farewelled his rodent companions as they marched northward. Heaving him self up on to the wet platform, he slid along the tiles, finding the corroded escalators that led up to the original site of Queen's Park tube station. Water cascaded down the metal stars and he hung tight, forcing his way to ground level. Finally, he squeezed out of the ticket hall; it was frightfully cold and with the onset of night, he skirted around the fringe of the tenements, sniffing for trouble. He'd expected a blockade of Guards, but there was no one waiting to pounce. Even as AerofexZip-Sticks circled above, he saw none of the regular veterans, warming themselves by a drumfire and a lone lamp scarcely illuminated the quad as fresh snow fell and a soft breeze blew. In a moment of serenity, Alistair allowed snowflakes to settle and melt on his ruddy cheeks until distant gunfire snapped him out of it. Spooked, he ducked for cover behind the communal Visi.

"What you doing there?" a stern voice issued from behind. "You know curfew's been called. Why aren't you at home?"

The Guard came within ten steps of the youngster, then barked.

"Oi, don't move! Ident...NOW!"

Alistair instantly threw his hands up in surrender, whilst the ignorant Guard continued bellyaching, trying to get a permanent fix on the boy who had fuzzed out of his viewer.

"Oi, where did you go?"

"I'm right here," Alistair acknowledged.

The Guard moved his head, listening for Alistair's voice but lost visual contact.

"I said don't move," the Guard snarled, reaching for his rhythm stick.

"I didn't," Alistair pleaded.

"Kid don't get smart with me...ACK ARGHHHH...ARGH!!!"

A sizzling jolt startled the Guard and he spasmed and keeled over. Some of the Guard's own sick dribbled through the neckpiece and Alistair looked up at his unlikely saviour.

"I never really cared for their kind of law," the blind old lady from the quad said, holstering her own rhythm stick. "We have to stick up for each other."

"I don't understand..." he asked, flabbergasted. The old lady's white eyes were blank; she twitched her nose and sniffed the air.

"I smelt raven...and there's only one person in all of London I know who has a raven," she revealed allowing herself a soft crackle. "Any enemy of our state of dystopia is a friend of mine."

"It's all been a bit of a misunderstanding," Alistair tried to naively explain.

"In this light and on this evening, it's not safe," the old lady advised. "They're coming to claim you, nowhere to hide away," she cautioned, extending a walking cane before she click-clack tapped across the square. Darting in the opposite direction, Alistair loitered in the shadows, squatting behind a tech dump. He was taking no chances and he shifted snow with his boots before prising open a manhole cover. He climbed down in to a utility conduit that connected to the maintenance room in the basement of his block and crept along. Inside the maintenance room, an infestation of indignant cockroaches curdled his blood. Jumping about the mouldy maintenance room, he grabbed a broom and dispersed the cockroaches with arcing swishes. Tossing the broom, he yanked open the service elevator doors and dived in. Sparking two bare wires, Alistair stubbed the 'close doors' button as the cockroaches mounted a challenge and he kicked out, persuading them to go elsewhere.

Ascending slowly, en route Alistair changed his mind as his courage waxed and waned. Finally deciding he would alight at the greenhouse floor, reasoning he was less likely to be sprung, Alistair sussed out the situation, halted the lift and quietly slid out. The smell of fertile manure filled his nostrils and he scrambled over to the internal rubbish chute across the hall where he pulled down the flap and crawled in, having just enough space to slither his slender frame through the receptacle. Mindful not to slip, he scaled the reeking chute with the exertion causing his arms and legs to wobble like jelly.

One more step he encouraged but at least it gave him time to collect his thoughts. His plan was naively simple; it wasn't really a plan, rather interconnected bad ideas, the gist of which was: get in, find Delilah and get out. Surviving would be preferable. He hadn't thought anything else through as Delilah would probably skin him alive first.

Reaching his floor, he counted to ten, then very, very slowly opened the flap and carefully observed, but there was no sign of anyone. He counted to ten again just to be safe then gave himself another count of five. I could be shot in two seconds once I crawl out of here he thought mournfully then counted to one hundred and eased out of the chute.

The front door was missing and he gingerly avoided large splinters before tripping over the compressed methane cylinder, making it roll across the floor to rest against the settee. Surely the noise had given him away and he froze to the spot. The flat was a shambles as were his nerves. His worm-farm tank was tipped over and smashed, their possessions strewn about; he heard flapping.

"Balderick," he whispered. "Balderick, where are you?"

Alistair checked his grandfather's ransacked bedroom, then moved to his own bedroom; the down of torn pillows and his shredded mattress covered the floor though he couldn't tell if the rest of the mess was his or not. Still, Balderick wasn't hiding in there and Delilah was nowhere to be seen. He knelt down and picked up his slingshot and stuffed it in his pocket then set back towards the bathroom.

"Balderick," he whispered again and there was a clatter; he dived in to the spare room and hid behind the door. On his belly, he looked up and found Delilah's passive face amongst the assorted junk and robot parts.

"Oh no," he whispered, jumping to a squat and closing the door. Saddened, he touched Delilah's face with his fingertips and she was stone cold. Her eyes were half-slits and her limbs were rigid; her head was on a jaunty angle to her neck and a stinging lump filled his throat. Overwhelmed, he laid his head in her lap and tugged one of her rigid hands on to his head, pretending she was soothing him. He sobbed quietly for a moment.

"What have I done?" he cried. There was noise in the living room and Alistair knew he was caught. He lifted his sad face from her lap.

"Oh Delilah," he said morosely, brushing her cheek.

Delilah's eyes sprung open; her red pupils dilated, the brown returning to her irises before she jerked her neck, her arms twitching mechanically as she faced him with a distant and blank look.

"Secondary programming: Initiate."

Delilah convulsed; her limbs straightened, before a paroxysm overtook her form and she muttered in a strange dialect. Through the cracks in the door frame, lights came on.

"Delilah," he hissed, trying to shake her out of her re-boot mode. "Delilah, please be quiet!"

Alistair panicked and held her down, but her feet thrashed and kicked over a tool rack which crashed to the floor. A solitary pair of footsteps crunched down the hallway and Alistair looked around for an alternative to capture. Delilah suddenly ceased convulsing and in fear Alistair felt like vomiting.

"Delilah," Alistair panicked in a whisper. "I really, really need your help."

The ominous footsteps halted. Through the crack at the base of the door, Alistair could see two, parted feet standing firm. The door inched open like a lucid nightmare, the horror about to be revealed. Alistair stared up blinkingly at the silhouette of a man.

"Alistair Raven, I presume?" the man in a well-pressed suit asked. The Agent of Change spoke with a sinister air and Alistair feared he had wet his pants.

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

Agent of Change Harrison Dean blew his hawkish nose; the willowy man was the kind of public servant much lionised in the Futurist regime, with impeccable grooming, steel eyes and a viscous disposition. Introducing himself haughtily, his flanking Guards promptly frisked Alistair, emptying his pockets.

"Since you're not appearing on any of our scanners, we wouldn't want any nasty surprises," Dean said, smiling, toying with his red tie, ensuring it was straight. "Your little bomb at Union Circle was quite ingenious."

Harrison Dean clicked his fingers and another pair of Guards dragged Delilah in to the living room, propping her up on the settee. Like a lifeless shop-window mannequin, Harrison Dean looked at the boy's sad face.

"Don't fret child, she was quite the commonmodel." The Agent stroked a spindly finger over the flesh of her cheek, running the tip down to her shoulder and trailed it away as he came to her uncovered upper arm. "I would hasten to add she's more trash than treasure these days."

A Guard exhibited Alistair's tin box, his slingshot along with Lewis' hailer to his superior. The Agent acknowledged and leaning over, he reset the compressed methane cylinder back on its base then smoothed over the fabric of the settee; Harrison Dean reposed comfortably next to Delilah and took Alistair's tin box and eyed it with cheerlessness.

"Bric-a-brac?" he slithered before examining Alistair from top to toe. "You do know you've caused all manner of trouble today," the Agent informed. "Some are calling you a terrorist. Do you like that boy? A terrorist? A touch over dramatic for a tosher like you, I would believe."

"However, never too young to become a terrorist," he continued, tutting. "You look so pale and weak; what are they feeding you in the slums these days?"

The Guard nudged Alistair but he did not respond.

"No matter; they do say looks are deceiving, but you my boy look more like a damp church mouse."

Alistair bristled, and he could feel both Guards laugh.

"Still, you know no better," Harrison Dean deduced, "your grandfather has probably brainwashed you, your whole life."

"Self perpetuating scum," Harrison Dean sighed, pursing his lips and sub-consciously tapping the tin box in to his hand. "The best thing they could do here is raze the whole quarter. Rat infested, damp ridden, stench wafting dirt hole that it is. In my book, people like you and your grandfather, don't really deserve to exist. Oxygen-thieving miscreants, the lot of you."

Again, Alistair did not respond. This man was merely an adult extension of the bullying David Cooper and the boy knew how to hold his tongue.

"Don't be shy on my account Alistair," the Agent minced, giggling. "By the time Alice Mould has sent you to rehab, she'll have had that pretty little tongue of yours wagging. Now's there's a real terrorist."

Alistair didn't like Dean's girlish twittering giggle.

"What have you done with my grandfather?" Alistair asked frankly.

"Oh, direct aren't we? Do you think you'll biff and barge your way in to the clink and whisk him away to safety? Yes, I am sure," Agent Harrison Dean scoffed, his words drenched with sarcasm. Brushing his palms down his pants, he stood, and then the mess of the living room.

"It's so..." he paused. "Retro."

"You better not have hurt Pop," Alistair spat, attempting to be brave.

"Ohhhh...tough talk," the Agent chuckled, coming face-to-face with Alistair. "They have taught you well. What next? Flared nostrils? A nauseating splash of banter about how I'm going to, how shall we word this, get it?"

Alistair stayed quiet.

"No, I'm afraid not lad," Dean smirked. "You see, your time is up. Futurist New Britain is here to stay. It's the likes of you who are facing extinction."

Another Guard entered the room. "Agent Mould, ETA, six minutes."

"Excellent," Agent Harrison Dean grinned. "I was kidding about retaining you. Your grandfather should be talking soon. I have no real need for you, but Alice Mould likes them young, especially when it comes to interrogations, so I'm obligated to allow you to continue respirating."

Alistair strained and the Guards tightened their grip.

"Struggling is probably a good idea; if you do, we can justifiably shoot you. Not that I need any real justification. Provocation, yes. Justification...no," Agent Harrison Dean remarked, patting Alistair on the head. Insanely, Alistair hawked a golly and spat in Dean's face.

"Futurist pig!"

It was utterly out of character and Alistair didn't know where it had come from.  Fear?  Bravado?  

Agent Harrison Dean used the back of his gloved hand and wiped away the Docker's omelette. He removed his glove, and with a wristy snap, slapped his knuckles across Alistair's face.

"You don't scare me," Alistair snarled, swallowing the pain.  Bravado.  It had to be foolish bravado.

"Don't I?" Harrison Dean sneered. "That makes me feel so inadequate."

The Agent again slapped Alistair with the back of his thin, bony hand. Dark blood dribbled from Alistair's nose, and he felt his lips swell, hot with the sting. Dean brought his face to Alistair's again and seethed; Alistair could feel the heat of Dean's ire and knew he'd crawled under the Agent's skin.

"You're nothing but a grubby stain on the fabric of life. By tomorrow morning, you'll be nothing but a small pile of ash."

Agent Harrison Dean eyeballed Alistair as he stepped back, flicking strands of hair from his brow and smoothed it down on his pate. Sadistically, he withdrew one of the Guard's truncheons and he held it up.

"Have you ever seen a truncheon crack through a skull?" the Agent asked and Alistair trembled.

"Step away from the boy," Delilah forewarned, as her reactivation completed.

"Or what?" Dean snorted, turning to face the BlissBot, truncheon still raised.

"Or this," Delilah said, raising her pointer finger. She shot Harrison Dean right between the eyes; spinning on his toes like a ballerina at the Spandau Ballet, the Agent collapsed to the floor. The Guards released Alistair and went for their weapons; their lumalive jerkins suddenly reading CEASE & DESIST.

"Alistair, drop!" Delilah ordered as she seized the compressed methane cylinder; the two Guards barely reacted before she had spun about like a crazed top, and knocked out both Guards, crushing their helmets with the hefty cylinder.

"Everybody wants a piece of the action," Delilah said sardonically whilst a contingent of Battery Guards stormed the flat. Delilah pirouetted sweetly, leaning to protectively shove Alistair behind her; and as the Guards squeezed in, Delilah hurled the cylinder at them and raised her finger-gun and fired.

The compressed methane canister exploded, sending a fireball through the air, engulfing the Guards. They scrambled to a retreat, enflamed, panicking, like wounded bumblebees. Delilah snatched Alistair's arm and with a whiz-whir, her finger-gun transformed right before his eyes; instead, Delilah's right arm converted into a Gatling gun and Alistair's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Where have you been keeping THAT!!!"

"Are you hurt?" Delilah enquired, shaking him.

"No...no..." he stuttered.

"Good," Delilah rallied, calculating. The roar of AerofexZip-Sticks permeated the room as the next wave of Guards stormed the landing, clomping over their smouldering colleagues.

In the swatches of light, Harrison Dean's lifeless face looked blankly at Alistair; a thin plume of smoke curled from the hole in his head. Alistair felt sick, shivering, whilst more gunfire erupted and Delilah retaliated in kind. He saw the tin box still in Harrison Dean's grasp, the truncheon in the other. Prising Dean's fingers from the tin, Alistair wiped it on to his sleeve then safely tucked it back in to his jacket pocket before collecting the hailer and slingshot. Delilah shoved him on his belly as gunshot spattered through the air whereby he hid behind the fabricant as the darkened room lit up with white bursts. The nanny peeled off shot after shot as the wall between the room and the hall was shredded and more Guards used wounded squaddies as cover. Delilah heard something and with her free arm, scooped up Alistair and hurled him behind the settee.

The outer wall was torn asunder and an AerofexZip-Stick formation hovered; their sensors prying like peeping toms. Alistair watched Delilah's shoulders click open revealing hidden rockets and Delilah activated her cross-hairs and launched her personal salvo. Concussing the AerofexZip-Sticks, she turned 180 degrees and fired another rocket in to the hall, scattering frantic Guards as it detonated. Clearing an escape, Delilah cocked her ear as a couple of surviving AerofexZip-Sticks reformed outside.

"Run," she ordered, grabbing Alistair by the wrist, dragging him to his feet. Alistair heard squawking and implored Delilah to wait a second. Racing to the kitchen, he opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink to find the raven cowering.

"Come on, we're outta here," Alistair encouraged. Eschewing the craziness, Balderick sought an alternative exit, taking flight via a broken window and soared out in to the night.

"Balderick!" Alistair pleaded but it was no good: his friend had gone. On the landing, Delilah determined escape permutations and Alistair watched on in awe as she reloaded fresh magazines.

"Where did you get a machine gun?" Alistair blurted and Delilah eyed him disdainfully.

"I wasn't always a BlissBot," was all Delilah admitted. "Perhaps once we've made our escape, I might tell you more, but for now..."

A Guard fired and caught Delilah flush in the stomach and she

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