9

RickerResources Building, Central Business District, the Mighty Asshole’s office:

The hologram above the secretary’s desk turned, looking Hawkins up and down. “All right,” it said. “You might as well let him in.”

The secretary nodded and the door behind her slid silently open, revealing a room that took up most of the top floor. The ceiling was more than three stories high, in a pyramid shape, built from long glass panels through which the stormy night sky was visible.

Hawkins passed through the door, into a sea of men wearing black suits with the same old-fashioned cut as a Federal Agent uniform. Their white shirt collars were all adorned with Accepted halo pins, and each Unnamed Executive wore double-fingered gold rings on the smallest fingers of both hands. In the room’s indirect light, the standard bullet-proof sunglasses had turned transparent, revealing their crazed, beady eyes and UE smugness. Their self-righteous sanctimony arose from complete confidence that God was on their side, but Hawkins knew better. These men, and even Ricker himself, got their power from money. God put real power where He wanted it, and no single corporation came close to the strength of the Federal government. In the packed room, only Hawkins represented God’s true will. The men moved aside, forming a path to Mr. Ricker’s giant desk.

“Hello, sir,” Hawkins said.

Ricker shook his head. “You are an unmitigated disappointment,” he said. “No girl, no drunken bum …” His eyes stared through Hawkins’s. “Not even a pissant freshman student from my son’s college.”

“Mr. Ricker, I’m sure you’re aware that the three disappeared into the Zone. We have an Agent from Task Force Zeta there right now—”

“Ah, yes. Task Force Zeta. The super-secret Angels on their super-secret mission.” Ricker opened a box on his table, removing a cigar. Not paper soaked in tobacco juice made from genetically-modified bacteria, but actual tobacco leaves, rolled together. Since cultivation of full plants was illegal, tobacco leaves were individually vat-grown by Federal permit under strict security, making that cigar worth more than a week of Hawkins’ salary. Ricker laughed to himself, shaking his cadaverous head. He bit off the end of the cigar and spat it onto the floor. “You’re security guards, entrusted with protecting a few hardworking Americans from the mob of those who would rather slit a throat than do an honest day’s work. But we all just found out how competent you are at that, didn’t we?”

“Sir, as you know, Federal leaders are—”

“Yes, yes. Chosen by God, I know the rhetoric. Here’s the truth: Federal law mandates that a percentage of each company’s stock be held by the government, and in exchange, the Feds are supposed to protect their interests. But owning tiny pieces of everything and then having to act on everyone’s behalf makes you powerless. Corporations run the world, free from outdated regulations and encumbrances that cripple the likes of you. Men like me run the corporations, and we run you.” He lit the cigar with a petrol lighter, taking a drag and blowing smoke toward the pyramidal glass ceiling. “I was chosen by God. You were promoted by an antiquated, impotent bureaucracy. So be a good soldier and tell me what Zeta is doing to find my son’s murderer.”

Hawkins stared back. “Mr. Ricker,” he said. “It’s clear you are a powerful man, but please don’t mistake my cooperation as a sign of weakness. You may find it inconvenient, sir, but I truly am God’s representative on earth.” Ricker squinted slightly but Hawkins began his report before he could speak again.

“Task Force Zeta has installed an Agent in the residence of a local con artist, a sham doctor. The girl visited him, apparently seeking medical care after the incident with your son, sir.”

“What con artist?” Ricker asked, his voice softer but still irritated. “Where is this man?”

“Sir, the Agent took over the room he was using as an office. He’ll remain there in case she returns and—”

“Is that what I asked you? Where is this con man?”

“The Agent determined that he knew nothing and let him go, sir.”

“He’s gone? The Agent determined? And I’m hearing about this for the first time right now?”

 

MediPirates Bulletin Board

LOGIN: Dark Dok #cB449d

(.*?)

 

NO NEW COMMENTS

A stinking underground room in what was called “Fiend territory:”

Sato’s filthy captors towered over his upside-down face. The taller one, whose shadow fell across Sato in the light of a single oil lamp, slapped him again. Sato twisted the naked body he controlled, enraged, struggling against his bonds. They were slippery now from the sweat and blood this body had lost, but he could not yet pull himself free.

“Nobody can handle this much pain. What’re you on? I never seen no pain killer last this long.”

Sato sneered up at them without speaking.

“Let’s try it again, asshole. We can see you’re a white man. Now what’s your fuckin’ name?”

“Sato Motomichi.”

Another slap. “Do you even know where you are?”

“I can remember some things. I know that you are … Fiends, and that this is your territory. I know that this object under my back is an oil drum, and that you have tied my hands and feet to the floor with old electrical cords, which are the same things you have whipped me with.” Sato’s anger boiled up—really, down—his throat again. He thrashed from side to side, straining to lift his head. “And I know that you are nothing but fish entrails and if I had even one hand free I would reach into your guts and present you with a fistful of your true natures! You are—”

The cord whipped across the body again, distracting Sato momentarily. He struggled harder. “You are filth! Honorless filth.” He raised his voice over the repeating swish-thwack of the cord as it echoed off the grimy concrete walls. “You live in small bands, killing and stealing and raping, like animals! You fight and die, but your deaths are meaningless.”

“That ain’t true, samurai.” The shorter one with the cord said. “This here’s the New Union. You’re talkin’ about other Wild Ones, before Top Dog came along and founded the New Union!” The cord whipped down again. “Now we’re organized. Civilized!” The cord came down again, punctuating the sentence. Its sound was wetter now that several welts were bleeding.

Sato stopped thrashing as the body grew unresponsive to his demands. The tall one came up near his head; Sato saw only boots.

“Why you doin’ this, pal? You don’t hafta keep goin’ like this. All we’re tryin’ to do is figure out what kinda guy you are. If you’re New Union material, you join us and take over the whole fuckin’ world. If you’re not, you meet Unity, and the pain stops.”

The man squatted down, lifting Sato’s head by its hair. “Oh, is that it? You afraid of Unity?”

“By ‘Unity,’ you mean death.” Sato sneered. “I do not fear death. I have already died once, by my own sword, in my own hand.” His narrowed, accusing eyes darted from one to the other. “I am the only one here who has experienced what you call Unity.”

The squatting Fiend released Sato’s head, which swung back and forth, hair dusting the concrete floor. Sato expected the cord again but the one holding it must have already exhausted himself. “We heard all this,” the voice above the boots said. “Tell us the fuckin’ truth. Why are you here?”

“I told you the truth. I am samurai!”

“Heard it.” The cord whipped down furiously, across his torso, chest, thighs.

“I have come on a mission to save the Life Force—”

“Heard it.” The cord struck his arms, wrapping around one, sliding his body on the oil drums as it was ripped back again. The one by his head stepped forward so that his toe knocked against Sato’s skull as he rocked back and forth. “Tell us again what you think about taking orders.”

“I told you before. I am samurai—a warrior. All warriors must take orders from superiors. Without discipline there would be chaos on the battlefield, with soldiers running in every direction. It is not the strength of the soldier that determines his value. It is the obedience of the soldier.”

The cord did not zip through the air. Sato strained his stomach and neck muscles, curling to look at the Fiends. They were staring at each other. Finally, the taller one spoke.

“You said you wanted to join us, but then you said you served some general. Why’d you say that if you served someone else?”

Sato could not tell them that it was the other man in this body who had volunteered. “I have not seen my general for a long time,” he said. “It is true that I have a mission, to the source of all life, but there is no action I can take toward that goal now. I will serve you faithfully until such time as I am reunited with my general. On this I give my word.”

“Give him Unity, Patrol Leader,” the one with the cord said. “He’s crazy, and he’s full ’a shit, too.”

“Probably right, Frontman. But we’ll have to let the Divinators decide what to do with him. What he’s saying about honor and duty, and structure … it’s damned close to what Top Dog says. And look how tough he is: Anybody else would’ve been out cold from the pain way before now. And anyway, I don’t think we’ll run into any Japanese generals anytime soon.” He laughed. “Our job is to see if he’s got the potential to become one of us, and I think he’s passed that test.”

He bent down, snatching Sato by the hair again. “But the Divinators look for something else, samurai. Their job is finding out what’s inside you—what you believe. And maybe you don’t feel much pain now, but they’re about to change that.”

The man turned, pointing the boots out the door as the other followed him. “Good luck to you, Samurai.”

Inside Agent Hawkins’s brain:

“Daiss?” Agent Hawkins drew back his head, as if doing so would clarify the image in his mind. “What happened? I didn’t recognize you.”

“That’s why I did it. We decided this would produce the most information.”

“What is it? Make-up? Some kind of dye?”

Daiss held up a hand, turning it over. “Pills. A drug that brings all the skin’s melanin up to the surface. Before they came up with the sun-blocking fungus we Goldens grow in our flesh, this was an earlier attempt at dealing with solar radiation. The downside was, of course, that it turned everyone black.”

“So you’re going to impersonate the black man?”

Daiss pursed his lips while the rest of his face twisted in a condescending “I’m-so-disappointed” expression. “You know, Agent Hawkins, I’m happy to assist in your case, but I’m not at liberty to discuss specific details of the operation as they relate to Task Force Zeta’s agenda.”

“Oh? Great. Then you can go deal with Ricker next time. He wants information and since you’re the one with all the answers—.”

“Ricker is of no interest to me. As you will soon learn, Agent Hawkins, Task Force Zeta responds only to the highest authority. If that means teaching Ricker how unimportant he truly is, so be it.”

Williams Gypsum Corporation Headquarters, Central Business District:

Chairman Lawrence Williams VI stared at the two black-suited men in his office. Their suits seemed to emerge from the textured Corporate Green walls, like warts.

“Your son’s been a very bad boy, Mr. Williams,” said the one on the right, who seemed to do all the talking for the pair. “I’m sure you know he won’t be joining McGuillian now. There’s no way they’ll let him stay at Fisher.” The Unnamed shrugged. “Not a big loss for them, is it? Just a tired, dwindling company and a deviant criminal student.”

“That’s Chairman Williams, to you.” He looked condescendingly from one to the other, trying to stare them down, though he could barely see their eyes through the glasses they wore. “What is it that you want?”

“Information, of course. About your bad, bad boy. Where is he?”

“I wouldn’t tell you if I knew. You had to know that before you came in here. Get out of my office.”

The Unnamed was suddenly only centimeters from his face, staring at him with narrowed eyes through the dense bulletproof bioplexi glasses. “Listen, asshole. We’re gonna find that son of yours. You can make it hard on yourself, or not. But we’ll get him one way or the other.”

“Back off, thug,” Williams Six said. “You’re talking to the Chairman of a sovereign corporation.”

The Unnamed laughed. “Not much of a corporation, though, is it? Certain other interests could wipe you out, just for fun.” He slapped Williams hard across the face. “Tell me where the kid is.”

Williams fumed.

“What’re you gonna do, Mr. Chairman? What can you do?”

Williams shoved the black-suited man backward and dove to the floor as both Unnamed’s heads exploded into red mist and the black-suited bodies crumpled.

Gunshots from down the corridor immediately followed, confirming that the two Ricker UE who had remained in the reception area had been similarly dealt with.

He stood, flicking bits of flesh from his corporate uniform.

“That’s what I can do, you pompous prick,” he said. Four new men in black suits appeared, two through doorways, two from behind a curtain—the Williams Gypsum Corporation’s own Unnamed Executives, weapons in hand. “I trust you will get this mess cleaned up for me, One-Fourteen?”

The oldest of the four nodded his gray head. “Of course, sir. That’s what we’re here for.” He watched the others scoop up two of the pairs of sunglasses and drag out one of the bodies, then closed the door, lowering his voice. “If I may ask, though, sir, are you prepared for the war you just started? RickerResources must have at least a thousand Unnamed. Your company has only eight of us, sir.”

“Nobody threatens me like that, demeaning my company and my family. I’m company Chairman, God damn it.” He nudged the remaining headless corpse with his toe. “As for the numbers of Unnamed … There are going to be some changes in our corporate structure. You’ll have all the help you need.”

Some street in the Zone:

“I’m glad we got out before the sun came up,” Lawrence said. His voice trembled a little from the cold. Or maybe it was from feeling so scared and vulnerable on the streets of the Zone. There had been daylight for hours now and he realized the night had been safer. In the dark, nobody could see how weak and defenseless their little group was.

“It wouldn’t have been long before the Feds found us there,” Eadie agreed. She cupped her hands and blew into them. “At least we got a chance to rest and collect a few supplies at the old lady’s place.”

“The food won’t last long, though,” Lawrence said. He felt the bottom of his bag, identifying some candles and a few dry bactrocarb crackers. Everyone was carrying something. Even the Prophet had a big canvas purse full of wood splinters and rags. Lawrence turned to Dok. “Will we be able to stock up once we get where we’re going?”

Dok shook his head, scowling.

Lawrence lowered his voice, bending toward Eadie. “Do you know where we’re headed? Hopefully it’s somewhere safer.”

“Not much chance of that,” she said. “Dok’s place was in one of the safest parts of the Zone. And look how much more run-down the buildings are around here. I don’t know this area, but that’s probably because it’s not a place I’d want to visit.”

Lawrence raised the collar of his long coat. “It’s good that you were able to get some different clothes,” he said, as his arm brushed the sleeve of the gray wool jacket she wore. “I wish I didn’t stand out so much in this uniform.”

Eadie smiled a little. “But I thought you were so proud of being a student.”

Lawrence bit his lip. The gravel crunched under their shoes. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ll never be a student again.”

They were passing a dirty cinderblock building with all of its windows broken out. Lawrence stared at letters written in charcoal next to the front door: “E.D.”

“I’m so sorry about that,” she said. “You shouldn’t have given up your whole life just to help me.”

“It was my choice,” Lawrence said. “My life, my choice. But I feel so bad for everyone else. My friends, my school … everyone I know will be disgraced by this. My parents, our company … And my sister—oh, God. My poor sister. Her fiancé will call off the engagement.”

“He’d do that, just because you helped me?”

“Of course. He wants to marry her because of what she is. Her class rank, her prospective position at McGuillian and her family’s respectability will all directly affect his status and his future. People who decide whether to hire him and promote him would know all about her. He can’t afford to make a bad choice.” He shook his head, exhaling. “Poor Ani. I wish I could tell her how sorry I am.”

Dok leaned closer to them both. “Could you two shut up now? This isn’t a place where you want everyone to know you’re coming.”

The tiny tenement room where the black man had waged his futile battle against God’s will:

Agent Daiss pulled on the once-white lab coat, shrugging his shoulders to try and force his massive arms through the sleeves. One sleeve tore away from the body, leaving a thready rent down the back. He would have to bring his own lab coat to make him look more authentic.

Letting the black man take so much of his “equipment” might have made the room look less convincing, but it was necessary to prevent him from attempting to return.

A timid knock sounded on the door. Daiss opened it, staring down at the little Zone woman who stood in the hall. One of her eyes was swollen shut and her face was crusted with dried blood from her nose. She gaped up at Daiss.

“I’m sorry, I was looking for Dok.”

Even with the dark skin, it appeared some of these people could still tell the difference. It was unfortunate, but not an insurmountable problem. “I’m Dok’s cousin, Drake,” he said, taking a single step backward to let her pass into the office.

She came in and sat on the table, silently staring at the wall. Daiss wondered if this charlatan actually touched his “patients.” No matter. Daiss was not prepared to put his own hands on these wretches. He tilted his head sideways, narrowing his eyes, then tilted it in the other direction. For this purpose it was close enough to an examination. He went to his bag, removing two small plastic bags of powder.

“I was coming home from work last night,” the woman said, still staring at the wall. Her mouth was swollen, making her look and sound like she had stuffed it with a rag. “Three men attacked me.” A few tears welled out of her eyes.

Daiss nodded. “I see. I have two powders here—”

“I’m … I’m most concerned about, you know …”

Daiss stared, grinding his teeth to help him suppress his annoyance at the interruption. It was tempting to simply smash the woman’s face in, but that might interfere with his mission.

She lowered her head, staring into her lap. “I don’t want to have another baby. I’m not in a corporation … I can’t pay for the kid I’ve already got. I can’t have another, and pay the birth tax, and all the procreation fees, and—”

Daiss pushed the two baggies into her hand. “The lighter colored powder is very strong medicine and your stomach might not be able to keep it down without taking the yellow first. Mix it into a glass of water and swallow it. Then do the same with the light one, making sure to drink it all down. I guarantee you won’t have another baby.”

Shitbox Manor:

Though Old Fart’s stomach was still sour, he was starting to feel its emptiness. They had been sitting on Kel’s floor for several hours, recuperating.

“Kel? When do you think we might get something to eat?” he asked.

Kel shrugged and reached for his lighter, rolling it around in his hands. “Soon as we find somethin’ to eat, Old Fart.”

Old Fart stopped talking for a moment, but the silence was starting to wear on him. “Why do you keep your door open all the time?” he asked finally. This doesn’t seem like a very safe place for that.”

“Just like it open, is all. My place, my door, so I keep it the way I like. Shit.”

Old Fart looked down at the floor, sulking. The room went quiet again, with Kel absent-mindedly fondling the lighter and Old Fart staring out the open door.

Creaks and squeaks echoed in the stairwell. Someone was climbing up the ruined stairs. Kel stood up. The sharpened keys dangled from their wire at his side.

The sounds came from different places in the stairwell—it was a group of people climbing up. Old Fart froze, anxiously watching the stairwell doorway. A silhouette appeared, head turning to take in the hallway, then fixing on Old Fart. It came slowly closer. Others rose behind it.

Finally a face came into the dim daylight that filtered through Kel’s window. Old Fart stared, wide-eyed. He had heard stories, of course. He knew what this was. But he had never imagined he might be face-to-face with a real, live Black Negro.

Kel moved toward the door. Of course! Kel was too young. He probably never heard the stories!

“Kel!” Old Fart whispered. “Kel, be careful!”

Kel waved a hand down at him, as if swatting a low-flying insect. He stood at the edge of the hole in the floor, peering out at the man.

“You that doctor?” Kel asked.

Doctor?

The Black Negro nodded. “I’m looking for your neighbor, Brian,” he said. “Do you know if he’s around?”

Kel shook his head, then cocked it toward the next door down. “Lives there. You been here before, gettin’ supplies from him, right? I watched you go by once.”

The doctor nodded.

Kel shrugged. “I saw him come home real early but then he snuck out again,” Kel said. “You c’n go ahead an’ knock, anyways. Everyone knows how he creeps around.” Kel shook his head again. “Couldn’t of got past me when I was awake, though.

The man nodded and passed to the next door, knocking. Behind him came a girl with a cut face, a kid in a college uniform, and a skinny hobo.

“Brian?” the man’s voice called in the hall. “Are you in there? It’s Dok. I wanted to check on you, make sure you got home all right.”

Old Fart listened. The room next door was silent. He climbed to his feet and stood next to Kel, who was still staring into the hall. Old Fart followed his gaze and realized Kel had locked his eyes on the girl.

The black face appeared again in the doorway. “He’s not answering,” the man—the doctor—said. He slumped against the doorframe. “Would you mind if we wait here in your hall? We’ve been walking for hours.”

“You must really need some supplies from Brian, huh?” Kel asked. The man stood up straight again.

“No. We’re not here for Brian’s business. We just need to rest a little while.”

The girl leaned forward, holding a bag of crackers. “We can share,” she said.

Kel stepped back. “Sure. You can wait in here. We’ll sit here an’ wait for Brian. Why the fuck not?” The girl started to step over the hole and Kel offered her a hand. “Careful. There’s a, you know, a hole.” He ushered them into his room.

She nodded and barely smiled. The cut across her cheek seemed like it was in a bad place for smiling. She took Kel’s hand and he helped her inside.

The stinking underground room in what was called Fiend territory:

Plastic.

That was what the man’s memories called this material. A plastic bag. Sato fought the urge to breathe; sucking the bag into his mouth and nostrils made him feel more desperate for air. Finally, shamefully, the body overcame his will, sucking hard against the bag and flattening it against his face. Sato strained the body’s arms and legs against the arched position in which he was bound.

The bag came away again. Sato breathed deeply, staring angrily up at the steely-eyed Divinators. This time they had chosen to let him stay conscious. Why?

Suffocation had caused the body to get an involuntary erection. What Sato would euphemistically have called his “son” in Japan, and what the other man called his “prick” or “cock,” was swollen and twitching. A strong fist seized it as someone whispered another question in his ear but the language failed to register. The fist released him and the electric cord struck his son, first from one direction and then another. Sato fought back the humiliation by reminding himself that the body was not his.

The Divinators wore all black clothes. They chanted and communicated with each other in a strange language, and they had replaced the small flickering oil lamp with two wide bowls of blazing fire. Periodically they would throw powders into the flames, filling the room with strange-smelling smoke. Over and over they asked the same questions, and each time Sato gave the same answers: He followed bushido, the ancient samurai code of honor that demanded complete loyalty and obedience to superiors, and that had required his ritual suicide in service to the daimyo. He feared loss of honor, not death. Discipline and order were essential in all human endeavors because they separated us from the animals.

One Divinator held his head. Another pulled his lips apart and dropped a bitter liquid on his gums. He gnashed his teeth and tore a bit of flesh from the finger, spitting at his captors.

They pulled the plastic back over his face.

Shitbox Manor:

“Didn’t know you came to see people at home,” Kel said, spreading his fingers and closing them around the widest bunch of crackers he could manage. He was sitting on one side of the girl, talking to the doctor across from him. The student fuck in the uniform was sitting on the girl’s other side. The student fuck, the doctor, and Old Fart had only taken one cracker apiece. Because they were pussies.

“I don’t, very often,” the doctor said. “But this is a … It’s sort of an emergency. Did you notice anything unusual about Brian when you saw him?”

“Left his door open when he left. That’s fuckin’ weird, ’specially for Brian.”

“Yeah,” Dok said. “That’s the kind of thing I’m worried about. Hopefully he’ll be coming back soon.”

Kel nodded, stuffing crackers in his mouth. “Mmm.” He took out the new notebook and his lighter, flicking it but getting no fire. Usually the lighter flamed up fine with his left hand. He set the lighter down, switched the crackers to the left hand, and tried again with the right. “Fuck it all,” he said, spraying cracker crumbs. “Outta gas.” A few crumbs stuck on the rubber patch over his knee. He poked them with an index finger and scraped them back into his mouth with his teeth.

“Thanks so much for letting us wait here with you,” the girl said. “It’s a big help.” She offered Old Fart another cracker. He almost ate it but then shut his eyes hard and pinched his lips together tight, like he was struggling to keep down whatever was left in his guts.

“Hey, Doc,” Kel said. “Can you fix Old Fart? He’s hung over like a motherfucker. I don’t want him pukin’ again.”

Dok turned to Old Fart. “I can help, if you like.”

Old Fart hesitated like he was wondering about something, and then he gave a little nod. Dok took Old Fart’s wrists and found some special spots there, then pushed his thumbs into them.

“Feel a little better?” Dok asked.

Old Fart nodded. “I do. I actually do feel better!”

“Now you press here,” Dok said. “Fold your arms.”

Old Fart crossed his arms and put his thumbs where Dok’s had been. Dok took a little package from his shirt pocket and got a couple of really thin needles from it. He took Old Fart’s arms again and put needles where the thumbs had been. Then he took hold of Old Fart’s head and put another needle in his ear, just a little above and a little behind where the sound went in. He put one more needle in the other ear and looked back at Kel. “I might be able to help you, too. I see you favoring one shoulder; it looks like you’re really in pain.”

Kel glanced at Old Fart, who was smiling down at the needles in his arms like they were the most wonderful fucking things in the world. “Naw,” Kel said. “Thanks, but I don’t want nothin’ stickin’ in me. An’ it ain’t that bad.”

Dok smiled. “Whatever you say. Thank you for letting us stay here, just the same.”

“Sure,” Kel said. “We weren’t doin’ nothin’ anyways. Right Old Fart?”

The girl laughed, turning to Old Fart. “Why does he call you that?”

Old Fart smiled. “It’s … Oh, it doesn’t matter. You might as well call me ‘Old Fart,’ too. And what can we call you?”

The girl’s eyes flicked to the doctor. The doctor’s eyes got big and he shook his head.

“I’m Kelvin,” Kel said. “Kelvin Mays.”

“Ooh!” the girl said, pointing at the notebook. “What’s that? What are you writing?”

Kel looked down. “Writing?”

“I haven’t gotten to read anything for a long time,” Eadie said. “Can I look at this? Would you mind?” Her hand settled on the notebook’s cover.

Kel felt himself smiling like a big dummy. He heard his own voice before he decided to talk. “Go ahead.”

She picked it up, opened it. She flipped some pages, then stared at one for a while. Her eyes opened wide and she shook her head a little. “This is amazing,” she said. “These are all your own ideas? I thought I was the only one who had these thoughts. It’s brilliant. It’s really, really touching.”

Kel looked at her sideways. “Of course it’s touching you. You’re holding it in your hand.”

She smiled, or almost smiled, and stared some more. Then she talked all weird, like all the words were already in her head. This was more like what Kel had thought of as “reading.”

Our system has met its goals of efficiency and avoidance of conflict, but at a terrible price. Everyone lives the life they’re told to live. Children obey parents, getting stuck in careers and marriages someone else sets up for them, and eventually they grow up to control the lives of their own kids the same way. And while they might resent the control, they would never dream of rejecting it, because the only way to live free of it is to live in hopeless poverty and fear. A lifetime of having decisions made for you and being bullied by the same bosses is still better than starving or freezing or being beaten to death. The best we can hope for is to be assigned as gears in the biggest possible apparatus, turned by the other gears nearby.

Eventually the lifetime of training pays off and we end up put into the corporate (or public) brain trust, having our brains used for storage and processing as our bodies are kept alive with mass-produced equipment. We’re just fleshy components of a giant machine.

The only question left to us is: What is our machine producing?

The stinking underground room in what has been called Fiend territory:

Pain flashed through the body, burning every nerve and searing an afterimage across the flickering misty darkness of Sato’s vision. The men—and women, too, Sato now observed—in black robes floated past, chanting. Their sizes alternated from minuscule to gigantic. Perhaps they were not chanting. Maybe they were grinding or scraping something, producing a sound like chanting. The fire pots floated and bobbed about the room like tiny toy boats. He inhaled, sucking all the fire inside the body, and then blew flames across the room. The Divinators drew energy from the fire he exhaled, growing larger.

The liquid they had given him was a hallucinogen; he had deduced this from the other man’s memories, and it was the reason he was experiencing the world this way. It made things seem detached and strange. In Sato’s case, it also blended the physical world with the misty dreamworld he had traveled through to get here. The room was partially hidden by smoke and by the mist. He looked out through the eyes he knew were not his, suddenly becoming aware that the other man was looking out through them, too. Another presence was sharing the same experience.

As he suffered another flash of intense and excruciating pain, Sato realized it was this other man’s pain, and his vitriolic, consuming anger that took over the body, making it scream in agony and rage. Sato understood that he was feeling only some fraction of what this man felt; the drug blended them somewhat but not completely. Several times in Sato’s youth, his teachers had brought him to the brink of unconsciousness through pain and exhaustion, but the sensations he was getting from this man were beyond anything he had experienced in Japan. This man had no way to become unconscious, no escape from the torment.

“This is good,” Sato said, not knowing whether he was speaking the words aloud or not. It did not matter. The man would understand. “Now you will feel through me, as I feel through you. Like these Divinators, you will understand that I am what I say. I am samurai. My mission is to serve the Life Force. I cannot be stopped and I cannot be killed. You will be rid of me only when the mission is complete.”

The presence he had felt faded away again, leaving Sato to stare out through the eyes alone.

A Divinator placed three fingers on his forehead. “You have proven yourself worthy, Samurai. Welcome to the New Union.”