Chapter Two: The Lamppost

  The relentless knocking on the door jolted Brannigan awake. The midday sun had turned his bedroom into an oppressive sauna, sweat soaking through his clothes and pillow. He stood up, feeling the aches and pains from the night's exertions, and made his way to the living room, one hand pressed against his aching back. When he opened the door, Alby jumped back a few feet, his expression bewildered and confused.

  "Can I help you, Alby?" Brannigan asked, his patience already wearing thin.

  "Oh, right, sorry, sir," Alby stammered. "I’ve been knocking for a while, and I was worried. I came because we found some debris from last night."

  Frustration bubbled up inside Brannigan as he rubbed his damp forehead, trying to calm himself.

  "I can’t believe I missed that. But it would have been tough to spot in the dark. How much debris is there?" Brannigan inquired.

  "Just a wagon load. We’ve gathered most of it. What should we do with it?" Alby asked, his voice wavering.

  "If it’s just a wagon load, you can store it in my tool shed—the one with the red tin roof. I would hate to burden Mrs. Murphy any more than we already have. That work, Alby?" said Brannigan.

  "Yes, sir. We’ll get that taken care of. Should be out of your hair soon," said Alby.

  Alby turned to leave.

  "Wait," said Brannigan.

  Alby stopped and looked back at him.

  "You’ve done well. Thank you," said Brannigan.

  Alby nodded and jogged to the road, where a few friends waited with a tarp-covered wagon. Brannigan almost told Alby that his older brother would be proud of him, but he decided against it and closed the door. The breeze helped clear out the heat after he opened every window. He listened to the boys drive the wagon to the red tool shed at the back of the house. They argued in hushed voices; Brannigan could not hear them and did not care that he couldn’t. As they unloaded the cart, he prepared a hot bath. He lit a fire in the stove and pumped water until he had enough for a hot soak. Once the boys left, he stripped down and let the warmth soothe his aches and worries. His eyes grew heavy, and sleep reclaimed him before mid-afternoon.

  There were worse ways to wake up than being in a cold bathtub, but at that moment Brannigan could think of few. He pulled the drain plug and sat there while it drained. The setting sun filtered in through his shutters, and upon seeing what time it was, he regretted sleeping the day away. It would ruin his sleep routine for a week. There he sat, cold, wet, and naked in a tub in an empty house. He supposed his mid-life crisis could be worse, but he could not imagine how.

  After he dressed, he went outside to check on Hermila. She stood in her lean-to barn as she always did in the evening. She chewed the oats he had left her that morning and gave Brannigan a suspicious glance before ignoring him.

  "Yeah, yeah. I shouldn’t have kept you out all night, but I had little choice," Brannigan said as he shoveled out the barn. Hermila raised her foot when he finished and waited for him to pick her hooves clean. After that, she enjoyed a thorough brushing, and sensing when he had finished, she dismissed him. Brannigan left her to her own devices.

  Curiosity struck Brannigan as he went back into the house. He hesitated for a moment before heading to his red-roofed shed. The evening air was still, and the only sound was the crunch of gravel under his boots. As he approached the shed, a sense of unease settled over him. The shed, usually a place of familiarity and comfort, now seemed ominous.

  Inside, he found his tool bench and a piece of burned aluminum. The wreckage was paneling from the destroyed turbine engine. It was light and had no markings, not even a serial number, which was odd. He dared not investigate further. He was sure he could reuse the panel. Once some time had passed, he would strip the shuttle and distribute the pieces among those who needed the material. Under normal circumstances, aluminum would not be a scarce resource, but no supply train had passed through the valley in a year. There was no way of knowing when another one would appear. It would be foolish to toss it if they could melt it down into something that didn’t look like an enemy shuttle.

  Something about his tool bench caught his attention. Nothing looked out of place. His saws were there, as were his hammers, pliers, and every tool he had gained over a lifetime. As far as he could tell, nothing had gone missing, but it looked different. Alby or one of his friends had given themselves a tour of the tool collection. Brannigan picked up a handsaw and held it to the fading light. Yes, it was still a handsaw. He hung it on the wall and went inside his home to find something to eat. All he saw was dry cheese and stale bread. Like with the cold bath, he knew it could be worse. A trip to the market was in order. With all the excitement the night before, it would do the people well to see the constable make his usual rounds. The appearance of continuity was better than none.

  Brannigan took his dry dinner and a glass of cold water to the front porch to waste the night away. He doubted he could sleep until later in the evening. Long after Brannigan finished eating, and at the usual time, Mildred and McConnell made their way down the lane. O’Malley had a full house this night, full of whispers and speculation. Despite his wishes, the people would talk, just as the wind would sweep the valley clean every night. The people of the valley were the purest he had ever known, but they were all human, and humans feared the unknown. There were now many unknowns, considering recent events. Someone shot down that craft. Someone murdered the pilot. Brannigan considered the possibility that the passenger on that shuttle was dangerous. Not just in a general sense, but also to everyone he held dear and to the quiet life they all sought. Just as fate delivered them from peril the year before, fate returned it.

  As McConnell passed the bell, Brannigan waved, highlighted against his porch in the bright moonlight, no wave returned.

  The next morning, Brannigan went to Hermila, who stood patiently in her lean-to barn. He grabbed the saddle and carefully placed it on her back, securing the straps with practiced ease. Hermila snorted softly, sensing the growing tension in Brannigan's movements. He patted her neck reassuringly before leading her out of the barn. The morning air was cool and refreshing, a stark contrast to the stuffy heat of the previous day. Brannigan mounted Hermila and guided her towards the road, the early sunlight casting long shadows on the ground. The rhythmic sound of Hermila's hooves echoed through the quiet valley as they made their way into town.

  A lone lamppost stood in the town square at the intersection of First and Main. It had been the only electric streetlight in town. He believed the hospital generator powered it, but Brannigan did not know for sure. It lost power at the same time everything else did. It marked the busiest part of the valley. O’Malley’s tavern sat in the southwest corner. The office that Brannigan shared with the previous political officer at the southeast. The small courthouse with a single jail cell to the northeast. A public garden to the northwest, guarded by a bronze statue of Lord Tanimo. He held up a hand, surveying all his surroundings, ensuring that everyone knew nothing ever escaped his watchful eye.

  Lord Tanimo reigned supreme on the northern continent with its heavy industry and super cities focused on manufacturing. Whatever grain the north did not need to sustain itself went up the space elevator along with the electronics and machines they made. Brannigan wondered what happened to the families living shoulder to shoulder, twenty levels high, when the power shut off. Did they starve? Or turn against each other in hunger and desperation? He did not wish to know. Once they cleared the occupiers, they carried on as they always had, with a smile and a tip of the hat to their neighbor and the deep satisfaction of a hard day working the soil. There was no starvation and no crime, and as constable, Brannigan hoped it would stay that way.

  Brannigan tied Hermila by the water trough at O’Malley’s and walked up to the lamppost. Bright red rust settled in where chains scratched it one year ago. Brannigan noticed a lone woman sitting on a bench, still shaded from the early morning sun. He recognized her and remembered why she sat there. He debated whether to say hello or leave her be. She settled the matter by gesturing him over to her. Brannigan’s heart sank, but he smiled and approached Lady O’Shea. She wore the black of mourning, but she remained stoic in her demeanor. Quiet and resolute as she honored the memory of her son Patrick, who was killed in the fight against the occupiers, and a stern but loving mother to Alby. A gloved hand patted the spot next to her, and Brannigan sat.

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  “Alby told me of the little adventure you had the other night,” said O’Shea.

  “Yes, unexpected excitement.”

  “They say the best adventures happen when you least expect them,” said O’Shea, who kept her eyes on the lamppost.

  “So, I’ve heard. Although, it did not feel like fun to me.”

  “They seldom do in the moment. It is only in the telling that most things become grand. So, tell me, who do you think it was? The little bird that fell from the sky?”

  Brannigan glanced around the park.

  “There’s no one here but us and the squirrels,” O’Shea said, sensing his apprehension.

  "The pilot was an off-worlder. Had that stretched look to him, like he grew up in a ship or on an asteroid. I do not know to whom he swore allegiance. As for the assailant, I have nothing. Whoever it was, they were strong enough to leave a gruesome mark."

  Silence fell between them, and O’Shea did not speak again until the light crested the courthouse and flooded her eyes.

  “Do you think he could be an occupier?” O’Shea asked.

  “I do not know. They come in as many flavors as any other group,” Brannigan said. “What bothers me is that the victim had no identification. Even soldiers carry tags. And the ship was unregistered and generic. Anyone with the proper funds could afford a similar model. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust any of it.”

  “You’ve trusted nothing,” said O’Shea. It was not an accusation.

  “I trust the people of the valley, but nothing beyond that,” Brannigan said, a lie.

  “What do you intend to do?” O’Shea asked.

  “I’ve asked that the people remain vigilant, to travel in groups, and to lock their doors at night,” Brannigan said.

  O’Shea laughed. “Good luck with that, Constable. I’m not even sure most houses here have locks to begin with,” O’Shea said.

  “Then they should barricade them shut,” Brannigan said.

  For the first time, O’Shea faced him.

  “You are frightened,” O’Shea said.

  “Of course, I am. How could I not be? Whoever fired the missile wanted the passenger dead. It was worth it to them to risk giving away their position. The attacker is strong enough to nearly decapitate a man with a single knife stroke. And if that was not frightening enough, this person escaped on foot in the middle of the valley and has disappeared,” said Brannigan.

  O’Shea considered this.

  “Yes, they could be hiding somewhere. Or lying dead in a hole. If they are dead, the buzzards will find them. If they are not, we will find them,” said O’Shea, but this did not comfort Brannigan.

  Brannigan wondered if he was being too paranoid, thinking this was just an isolated incident and he had worked himself into a panic for nothing. While news about the war was slow to reach the south, some news did. Not only did a foreign power invade their world, but they came at the behest of Lord Tanimo. While Brannigan never bought into the cult of personality himself, most people did or at least pretended to. In the south, it is easy to forget as the politburo focused most of its energy on the population centers, and all of those were in the north.

  The official reasoning for the occupation stated that Lord Tanimo asked the USU for help in quelling a rebellion. While no one Brannigan spoke to ever admitted to knowing of any rebellion of any kind, the USU still came. They even created much despair among the good people of the valley in the south. They were cruel and wielded terrible weapons far beyond what they could defend against. It appeared as if there was no end to their occupation in sight. Until one day, there was.

  All at once, the power went away, and their weapons ceased to function. With their advantages gone, most of the USU fled, only to be hunted down one by one by the people. With their air tanks depleted, they gasped for air in the dense, low-oxygen atmosphere. It did not take long to round them up. Their leader, an officer named Rodrigues, wore a special suit of armor that gave her strength and near invulnerability. The people of the valley felt that she had been the most vindictive of them, and by far the most dangerous, but she became trapped in her armor, and they hung her from the lamppost until she died. Brannigan avoided looking at the lamppost, a habit he had developed out of shame. His inability to act haunted him, and he saw it reflected in the eyes of others. His given name, the one only used by those he cherished, echoed through the still of the morning.

  At last, he stood.

  “One last thing, Constable,” said O’Shea, and he met her gaze. “If you catch this person, and if they’re an occupier, I want you to hang them from that lamppost. Got it?”

  Brannigan nodded and headed toward his office but did not make it five steps before Doctor Callahan ran up to him. Callahan, like most doctors, did not practice what they preached and was as out of shape as the average city dweller. She stopped short of Brannigan, wheezing from her run.

  “Thank goodness you are here, Constable,” said Callahan. “I tried your office and despaired when you were not there. We have had a robbery in the hospital.”

  Brannigan cast a backward glance at O’Shea, who showed no signs of surprise.

  “Alright, Doctor, easy now. What is missing?”

  Callahan cast a nervous glance at O’Shea and then around the town. There were signs of activity as people set about opening their businesses or riding out to the fields for work.

  “Best if you come see for yourself, Constable.”

  “Lead the way,” said Brannigan, who resigned himself to fate. He felt O’Shea’s eyes follow him as they left.

  *

  Like most off-worlders, the sick and the elderly required supplemental oxygen to survive on the surface. Brannigan learned in primary school that when humans first arrived, there had been little breathable air. But what the settlers found was a thick atmosphere full of carbon dioxide and just enough oxygen for photosynthesis. Within a few seasons of growing crops and smelting aluminum, the air became breathable with supplementation via portable air tanks. After hundreds of generations, the descendants of the original settlers adapted to the conditions. Adaptations only go so far, and when the air is thick, and the oxygen is low, some people need help. This is why every village had a large oxygen tank and a generator to power it, even in places that shunned modern life.

  Callahan led Brannigan through the lobby and past a pair of heavy wooden doors. Inside, cast in the dim light of a small window, sat the oxygen tank. Brannigan remembered it being installed. A large gas-powered crane brought it from the railroad and lowered it into position in the half-built hospital. The entire valley turned out for the spectacle. Most people had never seen a machine that large, and most would never see one again. Brannigan remembered seeing cranes the size of skyscrapers in his youth, but he did not ruin the fun for others.

  Portable bottles stood alongside the main tank, waiting their turn to serve the community. Callahan stood by them, tapping her foot with her arms crossed. Brannigan looked to her and the bottles and back. When he did not know what they had taken, the doctor spoke.

  "Three bottles are missing. Three!"

  Brannigan understood the significance of this.

  "Oh, boy."

  "Oh, boy is right. It is a good thing that it was the smaller models. Three days’ worth in most cases. That may not seem like a lot, but we don’t have much more to spare."

  As she spoke, the anger in her voice disappeared, leaving only quiet desperation. Brannigan knew it was only a matter of time before the situation grew dire. The oxygen distiller ran off the generator, and the generator’s controls had fried the same day as everything else.

  "How much do we have left, Doctor?"

  "Three months, maybe more. But not if our supply keeps being raided. We are lucky that we have so few that need supplemental oxygen. But when this tank runs out... well, I don’t have to tell you what will happen," said Callahan.

  Brannigan sighed and wiped his brow. Of course, she was right. She did not have to tell him it meant a slow death by suffocation.

  "Have you found anything else that’s been taken?" asked Brannigan.

  "Why, yes, it is a little strange, too," Callahan said as she moved to another part of the storeroom. The doctor pointed to a rack of color-coded connectors.

  "See this?" said Callahan.

  Brannigan shook his head.

  "These are the different connectors that go to the various models we have. Green for the new stuff, red for the legacy equipment. The thing is that whoever stole the tanks grabbed the wrong connectors. They grabbed green tanks but a red connector."

  Brannigan considered the implications.

  "So, the tanks would be useless to them?"

  "Yes!" said Callahan.

  "If they’re color-coded, how could someone mistake them?" asked Brannigan.

  "Oh, many reasons. They could not see in the dark. Or they were in a hurry and were careless. Or the thief is color-blind. The connectors look the same from the outside, after all."

  This gave Brannigan pause.

  "They changed the internal workings but not the outside design. That is absurd. Why would they do such a thing?"

  "Who knows what anyone is thinking at the politburo. It could be as simple as saving a penny. Took nurse Pattie and me days to get them sorted after the mix-up and that is when we devised the color scheme. Yes, they changed the design but didn’t feel the need to tell anyone.”

  "No surprises there," said Brannigan, and it was true. Many times, in the city he had seen people harmed or even killed to save a penny. Even though it had been many years since he escaped south, his time in the north never left his mind. It festered inside him, and instead of facing the sickness, he numbed it. For all the good that did him.

  "I’ll post a guard. So don’t worry about any more thefts, Doctor."

  The doctor laughed and shook her head.

  "Constable, I believe you are missing the big picture here. By now, the thief has figured out that the connectors and tanks are not compatible. Desperation will drive them back here, and if we plan this right, we could catch them. Then we won’t have to fear any blades in the dark."