Outpost Tharsis Two
Zealand Prefecture
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 21. 05:19
Archibald places a handkerchief over his mouth as he enters thmakeshift prison at Tharsis Two. The stench is overwhelming, worse than the streets of Favela.
“Tell the videographers to start rolling,” he tells Duke. “Let’s get this over with. Their stench is beginning to turn my stomach.”
“Yes, Mr. Archibald.” Duke puts a bullhorn to his mouth. “All right, you dogs. Line it up. Line it up. Inspection time.”
The prisoners shuffle across the yard, their soiled overalls and blue work shirts giving the look of a press-gang family photo. If there were work to do, they wouldn’t even be capable of it. Every man, woman, and child looks as if their feet are the only anchors that keep them from floating away.
In their current state, they make terrible theater. But that will change soon.
“Congratulations!” Archibald calls out, not bothering to use the bullhorn. “You have been liberated from the tyranny of the Zealand CorpCom by the Desperta Ferro!”
“The what?” Duke says. “We’re Sturmnacht, not—”
Archibald silences him with a sharp look. “Just as the original Desperta Ferro helped overthrow the Orthocracy, the new Desperta Ferro will liberate the people from the stranglehold of the Zealand CorpCom. We will reeducate you in the ways of true freedom. No longer will you toil in isolation. No longer will your labor be lost. No longer will you face starvation while raising crops for the CEO’s table!”
The prisoners look at him with glassy eyes. They are underwhelmed.
“Got the shot?” He looks to the videographers, who give him the thumbs-up. “Duke, pass out the water.”
Over the next few minutes, the prisoners are given cups of fluid, which they drink greedily. Only one of them, a tall blonde, refuses. Her hands are chained to the shackles on her ankles, and she stands a few meters away from the others.
A Sturmnacht tries to force the cup to her lips. He gets a wicked head butt for his trouble, and he stumbles back, hand covering a broken nose.
“Stop!” Archibald recognizes her now—the full-metal jacket angel from Christchurch. The tumblers of mischief start turning in his mind. The possibilities! “Duke, why is the Regulator out here?”
“You ordered all prisoners out for the show, right?”
“Not that prisoner,” Archibald says. “She’s special. Have her taken back to a cell. I want to deal with her personally.”
Duke gives the order. Three Sturmnacht move in on her.
She crouches as they reach out, then launches herself into the first man, knocking him on his butt. When the next Sturmnacht charges, she rolls onto her back and slams her bare feet into his groin.
“Oof!” he groans, and falls writhing to the ground.
Archibald strokes his chin. “Brilliant! She’s even more feisty than I thought.”
Before anyone else can reach her, she grabs the writhing man’s blaster and kips up to her feet. She fires three times and takes out as many Sturmnacht.
“Enough fun, Duke. End this before someone gets hurt. By someone, I mean me.”
Duke barks through the bullhorn. “Take her down!”
A pack of Sturmnacht surrounds the girl. She fires two more shots. Then the weapon clicks empty, and they swarm her, knocking her flat onto the ground and overwhelming her with the sheer weight of their bodies. After a moment of struggle, they carry her away, unconscious.
“That was enlightening,” Archibald says. “So even a Regulator can be overwhelmed by greater odds.”
Duke nods. “She’s a hellcat, that one.”
“We’ll deal with her later. For now, the show must go on.” Archibald signals the videographers to begin recording the farmers again. “Action!”
For a few seconds, almost a minute, nothing happens. Then, starting with the ones with the lowest body weight, the farmers begin to wake up. Their eyes turn clear, then pink, then bright red. They begin to stretch, then flex. One of the women bounces on her toes, looking around like a wild animal.
They’re ready, Archibald tells himself. “What’s my line again, Duke?”
His assistant looks at the script. “No longer will you toil in isolation, blah-blah-blah.”
“No longer will you toil in isolation!” Archie shouts.
The sound of his voice snaps the prisoners to attention. Archibald pumps a fist, and they mimic his action.
Archibald raises a fist. “Huzzah!”
“Huzzah!” they chant.
“No longer will your labor be lost!”
“Huzzah!”
“No longer will you face starvation while the crops you raise are for the CEO’s table! Desperta Ferro will rise again!”
“Huzzah!” they continue, apparently unable to stop. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
How funny, Archibald thinks before he’s interrupted by Duke.
“Command sent word that Mr. Lyme wants to talk to you. They’ve set up a secure feed in the comm center.”
I’m busy, Archibald thinks, but knows that Lyme doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
He signals the videographers to keep recording in his absence. The prisoners will keep shouting until the drug wears off or until they collapse from exhaustion. But after they edit the footage, it will look as if the farmers are part of a revolution against Zealand CorpCom, and when the video is released on the multinets, Mother will have yet another thing to worry about.
“Is there any truth to what you said?” Duke asks as they walk toward the Command Center.
“About us being the Desperta Ferro? No, that’s just a little flavoring Mr. Lyme added to the broth. About us overthrowing the Zealand CorpCom, it’s absolutely true. I told you, Duke. I’ll make a believer out of you yet.”
In the command center, Archibald sends everyone out, including Duke. All of the multinets’ monitors are dead, save one, which shows Lyme sitting at a desk—probably a bunker in some secret sewer—his features obscured by poor lighting.
“You are making excellent progress,” Lyme tells Archibald before he can utter a greeting. “Tell me, was the data for Project MUSE stolen?”
“Yes, Mr. Lyme, it was, but—”
“Splendid,” Lyme says, cutting him off. “Of course, you captured the dalit thief red-handed?”
“Yes,” he says, feeling relieved. “We are—”
“Again, splendid. Bring him to Hawera Dam. The facility has certain technological capabilities that will aid in his interrogation.”
His? But the dalit was . . . female.
The blood drains from his face, and his mind races, replaying their previous conversation. Did Lyme specifically state the sex of the dalit? Or did I just assume that it was the more ferocious warrior?
Good Lord, he thinks, if I had the wrong one killed, I’m a dead man.
“Is something amiss?” Lyme asks.
“N-no, Mr. Lyme. Nothing at all,” he says, recovering his poise. “We have the prisoner, and I will arrange for a high-security portable brig for transportation to Hawera.”
“Archibald,” Lyme says, “you make me proud. Keep up the good work.”
The screen flickers and dies. A few seconds later the other screens light up as the multinets resume function.
“Duke!” Archibald calls out, knowing that Lyme’s pride will turn to vengeance if they don’t get the correct prisoner back. “Get me Franks and Richards! Now!”