Fourth Vector Ch. 45

Bad call.

Bancroft sacked him permanently from the navy after that, and soon dictated that he couldn't leave his house unless he wanted to be put on the next proscription list. It was a large fall from grace for Java's second highest-ranking admiral. At first McKenzie was shocked and confused about the actions of his former friend, even to the point of trying to appeal Bancroft's decision.

Not surprisingly, nothing came of such appeals.

It appeared that McKenzie would be stuck in his house for the rest of his life, or at least as long as Bancroft continued to rule.

The first month was the hardest. Not being able to even run simple errands became maddening over time. His basic needs and groceries were attained by a single servant by the name of Harry, and it was only Harry that was permitted to step outside the front door. Otherwise, the only fresh air that McKenzie was able to get was through his windows.

After the hellish first month, McKenzie settled into a quiet and banal existence. He rose early every morning, positioning himself to watch the sunrise from the largest window in the building, where he had put his main sitting chair. After enjoying a frugal breakfast, McKenzie threw himself into his latest hobby--writing, and he would spend many hours crafting stories in an effort to keep himself sane.

That was the topic on his mind that evening as he tapped his pencil against his wooden desk. He needed a motif for the story that was brewing in his mind, and the last two stories he'd created had been remarkably similar, always returning to the world turned upside down theme.

It was only fitting that art imitated life. After all, it was the only thing that McKenzie had left to hang his hat on.

Just as he was contemplating putting the story away for the night and getting some sleep, there was an abrupt series of knocking at his front door that caused him a degree of anxiety.

Getting a knock on your door at night wasn't a good sign in Bancroft's Java. Too many people had met their end in such a fashion, and the persistence of which the knocking came made McKenzie's heart rate increase to untenable levels.

Knowing there was no sense in ignoring it (and potentially having his door broken down), McKenzie crossed the room quickly and opened the door, ready for whatever fate might have in mind for him.

What happened next occurred so quickly that McKenzie hardly figured out what happened until after it was over.

A flash of energy, disguised in the form of a man in all black clothing pushing into his house after being on his knees in front of McKenzie's door. As soon as he was in, the door closed rapidly but quietly, the intruder taking a second to take a breather. When that second was over, he moved closely to the window, checking every direction that he could see as if he was expecting a chaser to be right behind him.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded McKenzie angrily. "Who are you? Why are you in my house?"

The intruder didn't reply right away. He continued looking out the window as if he were waiting on something. Seconds ticked by as McKenzie's anxiety only worsened. What was going on? Was this some kind of game that was being played with him?

Was Bancroft determined to fiddle with him just before the end?

At long last, the intruder turned after being satisfied that no one was behind him. He looked at McKenzie, who had grabbed a serrated knife from his kitchen. Being afforded no other means of self-defense as per his house arrest, the knife was the only protection he had against intruders.

"You don't need the knife," said the man calmly, in an accent that was familiar to McKenzie (but one he couldn't place just yet).

"I'll be the judge of that," retorted McKenzie. "Who the hell are you? Are you one of Bancroft's men? What is the meaning of this?"

The man started to chuckle, which was creepy to watch as his dark clothing covered up every stitch of his identity save for his mouth. The disembodied chuckling from his mouth when combined with his dark clothing didn't serve to put McKenzie at ease.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been watching your house?" asked the intruder. "Or how long it took me to get in here?"

McKenzie said nothing in response. He only eyed the body of the intruder, trying to discern if this man meant him harm.

"Eleven days," replied the intruder after not getting an answer. "Eleven days of surveillance on your house. That's how long it took for me to figure out that the guard that watches your house usually nods off at this hour for a little cat nap. That's the only reason I'm standing here now is because for the next twenty minutes, he can be counted on to be snoring away, oblivious to anyone coming and going from your house."

As if to add weight to his words, the intruder pointed out the window, where a view of the guard could clearly be seen even at this time of night. Still not trusting the man, McKenzie edged closer to the window, keeping his knife between him and the newcomer. He took a moment to peek outside, and sure enough, his guard was still sitting there with his chair facing McKenzie's property. Notably enough, he wasn't moving.

"How do you know he's sleeping?" asked McKenzie. "It's too dark to tell from this distance."

"Men that don't move for that long usually are," answered the intruder. "And in his case, I watched him yawn several times before he dozed off. His routine is the same nearly every night, which can only mean that as a prisoner, you usually follow the same schedule. You must not keep him on his toes, eh?"

The intruder started to chuckle again, which finally caused McKenzie to put down his knife and plant his hands on his hips. "You still haven't answered my question. Who are you and why are you in my house?"

"Let's just say I'm a man that could be a friend of yours," said the intruder as he reached his hands up and removed his head covering. Suddenly, the darkness was removed, exposing the man's face.

At that moment, McKenzie was finally able to place the accent. One look at the man's face told him that his intruder was Tyrolean. He had dark hair and light features like the rest of the people on the Javan continent but his appearance was grizzled, having several days of growth on his chin. The faraway look in the man's eye told McKenzie that he was a veteran of some serious fighting in some form or another, combined with the fact that he saw no threat in McKenzie's kitchen knife whatsoever.

The question still remained though. What was a Tyrolean man doing in Lockhaven of all places?

"You're a long way from home," said McKenzie as he finally allowed himself the chance to relax. "And now I see why you're covered up. If that man outside saw you, you'd be in as much trouble as I would be."

"If not more," said the Tyrolean, once more chuckling to himself. "But I'm no dummy. I stay in the shadows whenever possible and rarely take my hood down. The rest of the Javans just think I'm a little crazy instead of being Tyrolean, which serves my purposes just fine."

"What is your purpose?" asked McKenzie. "I'm afraid if you're here to assassinate a Javan officer, you're about a year too late. I'm of no use to Javan high command, and my death can't benefit your resistance."

The Tyrolean shook his head. "The last thing I want is for you to be a dead man, Admiral. You're of far more use to my cause alive than dead."

McKenzie pulled his hands apart. "I have no idea what you mean by that. As you can see here, I'm of no use to anyone. I can't even leave my own damn house, and I spend all my day writing stories because I have nothing better to do. If you're looking for an ally in your conflict, you're in the wrong place."

"You're of more use than you think," said the Tyrolean cryptically. "And I think I know a way that we can help each other."

"How is that?"

The Tyrolean moved further from the window. "Turn the light off first. Just in case our guard wakes up, I want him to think that you decided to go to bed early. Turn the light off and join me in your bedroom."

With those words the Tyrolean moved directly into McKenzie's bedroom like he'd been there many times before. McKenzie found the experience a bit disheartening, seeing as the intruder knew his home as well as he did.

"You've really been watching my house for eleven days?" he asked once the lights were off and they were seated on the floor next to the bed.

The Tyrolean nodded. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to not be discovered here? People are constantly moving up and down your street. Your guard changes three times a day, and every new guard is required to walk the property to determine any threats before he can take his post. I have to avoid all of them. It gets very old after a day or two."

"You've gone through all this trouble, and yet I still can't figure out why you're here," said McKenzie. "Of what use do the people of Tyrol think I can be for them?"

"You haven't been paying much attention to the news, have you, friend?"

McKenzie shook his head. "I try not to, no. I never hear anything good anyway. The papers are full of Bancroft's propaganda, and there's no use in taking it at face value."

"Not even news of Tyrolean victories?"

"What victory?"

"The Battle of the Wilds," replied the Tyrolean. "A complete and total victory of the Tyrolean Army against the Javans. It happened over six months ago."

"I heard about that one," said McKenzie. "Not through official sources, mind you. The official retelling was that the Javan Army had to pull back after facing logistical difficulties, leaving a broken Tyrolean force operating in unfriendly territory. It was only Harry that heard the gossip at the markets that the outcome was much worse than that. Apparently, there were something like seventy-five percent casualties on our side for the battle."

"Ninety, but who's counting?" corrected the Tyrolean. "In any event, that battle was the decisive victory that our people needed to keep the war going. For the past six months, the Tyrolean Army has been marching through Thessaly, rearming and resupplying itself for another fight."

"We've heard about that too," said McKenzie. "Again, not directly, but Harry has noticed a severe drop in the number of Thessalian products in the markets. All of it points to a disruption in the country."

"Again, caused by our leader, Trevor Downing," said the Tyrolean proudly. "He's the greatest man that Tyrol has produced in generations. An excellent commander and leader of men, it's only by his hand that we are winning the war against Bancroft."

"And what does Trevor Downing want with me?" asked McKenzie, purposefully keeping his voice to a low whisper. Even if the guard was sleeping outside, any mention of the Tyrolean rebel could bring Bancroft's men down on his place. It was one the biggest taboos in Javan society today, almost on par with his old colleague, Jack Easterbrook.

The Tyrolean shrugged. "He wants what any man at war wants. An ally."

It was McKenzie's turn to chuckle now. "An ally. A poor ally I would be to him. I can't even leave my house, and the last time I checked, Tyrol doesn't have a navy, not that I would volunteer to lead it if it did."

The Tyrolean shook his head. "You mistake our purpose. We aren't looking for an admiral. Right now, we are looking for a messenger more than anything. And you can fill that role for us."

"A messenger? Why do you need a messenger?"

Instead of answering, the Tyrolean reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper. He unfolded it and placed it flat against the floor.

It was a map of the Javan continent, one that was sparsely detailed apart from the names of the three countries that made up the continent and their major cities. The Tyrolean started by pointing his finger at his home turf.

"Here's Tyrol," he explained before dragging his finger northeast. "And here is Thessaly. Trevor Downing can count on both areas to be in support of his army at the current moment." He then dragged his finger due west toward Belfort. "On the other half of the continent, Bancroft reigns supreme, but his situation isn't as strong as it looks. The army that was destroyed at the Battle of the Wilds is rebuilding. Sooner or later, it will come east to seek a decisive battle with the Tyrolean Army again."

"And by all accounts, you'll win such a battle," said McKenzie. "You've done it before so why can't you do it again?"

A humble look appeared on the Tyrolean's face. "The Battle of the Wilds may have been a decisive victory but it was much closer than you think. We were backed against the wall, and many assumed it would be the last battle of the war. It is only by some form of divine providence that we survived. Now, we can win another fight if the war comes looking for us, but Tyrol is exhausted. We need to bring a rapid conclusion to this war. In effect, we need an ally."

"You're a little late if you're thinking the Occitanians would get involved," said McKenzie, referencing the one country he knew best. "They are a defeated people. I hear they keep rebelling against the viceroy up there but they can only be a nuisance to him at this point. If you're thinking they can help you, it's not going to happen."

The Tyrolean shook his head vehemently. "I'm not talking about the Occitanians. I'm talking about Jack Easterbrook."

"Easterbrook?" asked McKenzie as he thought over the idea. A sly smile soon filled his face. "You wish to ally with Easterbrook against Java?"

"It makes strategic sense. Easterbrook is hated by Bancroft almost as much as he hates Tyrol. Tyrol can't keep taking on the Javan Army on its own, and we'll need someone to distract Bancroft so we can perform a killing stroke, bringing this war to an end. Only Easterbrook has the resources to do that now. He's the only one we can turn to."

"But nobody knows a thing about Easterbrook anymore," explained McKenzie. "I don't trust any of the news I hear about him. It all varies between portraying him as a cowed sheep backed into a corner one week and a vicious and bloodthirsty potential conqueror the next. Bancroft seems to not know how to portray the man, at least to keep the people thinking he's a dangerous enemy."

"If Easterbrook was backed into a corner and on the verge of defeat, there would be no reason to portray him as a conqueror," said the Tyrolean. "Bancroft would be crowing about that victory from the highest rafters if it were really the case. No, our suspicion is that Bancroft is really afraid of Easterbrook, and if that's the case, he's just the type of ally we need. Someone who can actually help us defeat Bancroft once and for all."

"So what's your plan? Because in all of this talk, I'm hearing of no way in which to actually communicate with Easterbrook. The navy monitors all those military comm channels and they would see any attempt to contact him. Not that Easterbrook would be stupid enough to try in the first place. There's no private mail service that operates between the oceans so your only chance would be a carrier pigeon if you wanted to talk to him. Good luck getting one across the ocean."

"That's where you come in, Admiral. You and you alone have the means to contact Easterbrook, don't you?"

McKenzie raised his chin haughtily. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, but I think you do. You see, we've noticed that you used to be very close to Easterbrook before the war started. At one time, you two were close friends, were you not?"

The Tyrolean pulled out an old clipping of a newspaper from his pocket. The clipping was from the parade back in Belfort after the Battle of Aberdeen, and it showed Jack and McKenzie riding in the same car together, waving to the crowd as the victors of the battle.

"Look at the both of you. You seemed to be fond friends at this point in time."

"I have no reason to lie to you, seeing as you're just as much in danger as I am," said McKenzie. "I like Jack and consider him to be a good man and a good commander. I don't believe for one minute that he willingly turned traitor against Java. No doubt he was pushed into that position by Bancroft, seeing as I was pushed here by Bancroft's hand as well. But I don't have a way to contact him. I truly don't."

The Tyrolean put the clipping and the map back in his pocket. "You're going to have to think of a way then. We need you to get a message to him, and only you can do it."

"What kind of message? What would you want me to tell him if I could?"

"That he needs to land his army on the Javan continent, preferably somewhere in the north," explained the Tyrolean. "Our army has plans to approach Belfort from the west and the south. If he approaches from the north, we can squeeze Bancroft between us. Only then, can we rid the country of Bancroft. Tyrol gets her independence at that point. Easterbrook is no longer a traitor, and you, my friend, you get out of your house arrest and resume your prior independence. Maybe you get to be an admiral again as well. We all get something out of this."

The idea made sense to McKenzie. All of them would have something to gain from Bancroft's downfall, most of all him. It would be incredible to step outside again and breathe the fresh air without these four walls surrounding him. Likewise, he longed for the day when he didn't have to worry about his name appearing on the latest proscription lists.

But then again, what chance of success did he really have? Could he contact Jack? And why should he trust this Tyrolean?

"What you're saying makes sense but I'm struggling on whether or not to trust you," explained McKenzie a moment later. "How can I believe that you're actually talking for Trevor Downing and not just a captured Tyrolean doing a favor for the Javans in exchange for his life? This could all be an elaborate trick designed to get me to incriminate myself."

The Tyrolean nodded as if what McKenzie was saying was making sense. "You have no way of knowing, I suppose. I have little in the form of assurances behind these items in my pocket. I have my scars attained after years of fighting the Javans, but any captured Tyrolean would have scars too, no? So what can I show you so that you believe that I'm the real deal?"

With those words, the Tyrolean pulled out one more scrap of paper contained in his breast pocket. This one was actually a handwritten dispatch, unlike the others. McKenzie recognized it as following the same format as military dispatches, whereas the commanding officer would write the order on the dispatch before it was given to the communication officers for transcribing. The original copy was always signed by the highest commander, and it was the most authentic copy when obtained in its original form.

The Tyrolean spread the dispatch in front of McKenzie. "If I was caught with this, I would be put to death instantly. This order reflects the nature of my mission as I just explained it to you. It contains the signature of Trevor Downing himself. See, right there?"

Sure enough, McKenzie's eyes fell upon the signature of Trevor Downing. He reached forward and brushed his fingers across the dispatch, knowing it was an authentic copy.

"You see, you're not the only one with his life at stake," said the Tyrolean seriously. "But this mission is important enough to risk it all. I'll give you twenty-four hours to think it over. There must be some way that we can communicate with Easterbrook. You take that time to think it over, and as long as the coast is clear tomorrow evening, I'll revisit you to hear your response."

The Tyrolean didn't wait for an answer. He pushed onto his feet at that moment, and soon approached the window, looking out for the guard that was still sleeping. Once he had confirmation, the Tyrolean pulled up his hood to hide his identity and moved closer to the door.