by J E Moore
harvesting glass (silicon) til your lungs crack (crystallize) and you flat-out dies." Her partner in crime paused a moment. "Sorry to mention dat... it weren't too smart o' me was it? We gots enough problems without thinking 'bout dat kinda stuff." He flashed a gold plated, toothy happy face and said, "Cheer up, Darlin', the worst parts is over for you. Yeah. Thanks to your stand-up (bravery) tonight we's be able to learn the Matoba language! Dat, plus new identity papers, passports and their native threads we can make our way to freedom. Be citizens in a 'Black' country!" He held her hand, "You risked so much... everything... to help us. We loves ya, sister Christine."
She squeezed his hand in return. "I know... and I know you're right about everything you said but sometimes it's so hard to contain my anger." She viewed with disgust the immaculate housing developments and interspersed plantations scattered within the Atlanta Core residential area they were passing. "God damn, White devils," she spat. "It's not my fault I'm without color. Some honky plantation owner hundreds of years ago knocked up one of his Negro love slaves, passed his genes down and ruined my life. He denied me of my rightful heritage!"
"Of course, it not be your fault," trying to console her. "Listen, Sugar, even though you've been wronged your true heritage, you should still be glad you didn't hafta grow up being a worker slave like the rest o' us. You should be grateful, yes sir-re grateful to your granddaddy and his quick thinking. His changing your race on your birth certificate after he seen how light you was when you were born. It done an awful lot of good things for you. Yes, Lordy, he was smart dat one and lucky some too. Not many Blacks ever hads a job where they could change hospital records like he done. Now you being registered and lookin' White will make it possible for a whole bunch of brothers and sisters to reach freedom. A fine man, your granddaddy, he was."
With a tear in her eye she moaned, "Yes, I've had some advantages... but pain also." It trickled down her cheek. "I'll never be able to be myself... have a real life, a happy life even if I was Black poor. I can't even get married. No man would have me; it would be too dangerous. I couldn't ask that of him. Hell, the White's would shoot his ass right in the street and hang his dead body from a light pole just for the way it looks."
"But you could marry a White... be well off," he countered.
"Marry a White! Those bigoted bastards make me want to puke. You got your head up your ass, Jerome? Jeez. And what about children? Me having a child with a White? Fat chance! That baby would surely pop out being some shade of color they'd not be expecting. They'd take one look at it and kill us both right there in the hospital. Then afterwards, maybe my whole 'natural' family too." He frowned in understanding. "I'll be a prisoner of color forever. There is no escape in the C.S.A." She remained quiet for a few minutes as the city thinned out then waxed, "Jerome, can you imagine a world of freedom and equality between all the races?"
"Say wha..." he sputtered. Freedom and equality for all?" He pondered this bizarre concept for a moment then responded, "No... no, I can't. I mean there's always been slavery, right? Two classes of people in every country?"
"I'm not so sure of that," answered Christine. I heard a rumor there once existed free countries called Canada and Mexico on this very same continent. If it were true then I have a pretty good idea of what must have happened."
"'Free countries'," he chuckled. "Okay, Sherlock Holmes, how you think dat could be true?"
"I believe or at least strongly suspect after the C.S.A. won the Civil War with the Evil North they kept on going and conquered all the rest of North America. And that in turn, changed the course of history for the whole world. The two class society became the norm for the entire stinking planet," summarized Christine.
"Wow! You sure gots some imagination," he scoffed. "Sorry, but dat be a little too far out for me. No, I cain't buy it. But, even if I is wrong and you is right, it musta happened a long, long time ago, girl. Either way, we'll never find out." He furrowed his brow, "Tell you true, I don't think even the Whites know what really happened anymore. Heck, you 'passin' and able to use their libraries should know dat even better than I do. The history books be fulla lies. Ain't a word o'truth in em' nowhere. Each country's mas'er race writes whatever they wants... then declares it to be the 'truth'. The gospel truth. Whatta crock!" He shook his head in disbelief, "They think we all be fools." He looked at the pensive figure next to him. "Humph, don't matter no how. We stuck who we is." He gave her a wink, "For the moment being dat is."
Jerome turned the airmobile into a 'mainstream' leading to North Atlanta and changed the subject. "I heards on Commchannel dat the Equalists shot down another Transair this morning'. It be the third one in two months. I wonder if dat why the detector is on the prism. To catch a revolutionary? Whatcha think, girl?"
"That's a possibility," she considered. "I'm really not up to date on the Equalists stuff. But I know if the C.S.A. police can capture just one revolutionary they'll end up with a whole bag full. No one can resist the state's All-Truth serum." He took the exit which crossed 'the railroad tracks' and led to Shantytown NE 4. "When are you due back at your plantation, Jerome?"
"Twelve midnight," he answered. "Dat's when the overseer takes the roll call and issues the work for t'morrow."
"The overseer? Not the Master?" she wondered.
"No, I works on a big plantation. We never see the Mas'er, 'cept when there be trouble."
"Midnight is good." she assessed. "That gives us a few hours to study."
"Yeah, it do," he agreed. And speakin' of dat, did you have time to test the prism?"
"Yes, it seems fine. Oh, you'll love this. While I was testing, I learned the Matoban translation for these North American White devils is Wy-tee." They both laughed.
"Imagine, a 'Wy-tee being my slave in Matoba?" He grinned from ear to ear, "Now dat be fine justice."
Two hours later at Dion's apartment the five 'students': Jerome, Tamika, Dion, Christine and Moesha were practicing their pronunciation of the Matoban alphabet.
"No," said Dion to Moesha. "I think the word has a softer 'a', like 'ahh'. Let's check with Nebuto," who spun in slow rhythm above the stolen prism. "Nebuto..." the holographic image keyed on his name, flashed a pleased smile and turned to Dion's position, "The letter..."
BLAM!!! The apartment door blasted into pieces! They all jerked upright in unison. A split second later, two baseball-sized canisters wizzed through the smoke and debris, hit the back wall and exploded on contact. 'Hissss' Dum-dum gas, which induces an immediate temporary paralysis, filled the room faster than you could snap your fingers. The students, realizing they were under attack, started to bolt from their seats. One by one, their nerves went numb; they lost their muscle coordination and fell to the floor. The frightened young people lay helpless and fully conscious as a dozen gas-masked C.S.A. shock troopers rushed in and 'secured the area'.
"Pack 'em up, sergeant," ordered the lieutenant.
"Yes, sir." He, in turn, addressed the other lower-ranked troopers, "You heard the lieutenant! Get this vermin out the door! I ain't got all night!"
"Take the prisoners to I.L. three (interrogation lab 3) asap," added the officer. "And bag the library prism, Sergeant. It's evidence."
The sergeant sneered at the fallen bodies, "You Darkies have bought the farm this time. And you too, Cutie," referring to Christine, who he assumed to be a Equalist White sympathizer. "Collaborating with seditious Negroes is a serious offense."
A trooper new to the unit, an opinionated rookie, spoke his mind, "These damn revolutionaries, puttin' them to sleep is too good for 'em in my book, Sarge. We're too f'ing nice to these scum bags. The scuttle-butt is that in the old days they'd flog the bastards to the bone and then string 'em up. We should've hung onto some of the old customs. We need a little 'getting even' time. You know, teach 'em a lesson... for the good of mankind, that is."
"You're absolutely right, Sonny," the sergeant grinned. "Don't you worry none now, we're gonna do a little 'getting even' while working 'within the system'...
for the good of mankind as you said." Explaining, "That's, what we have paddy wagons for, kid." All the seasoned troopers gave a knowledgeable laugh.
The next forty-eight hours passed as a blur... a painful blur - starting with the previous night's beatings in the paddy wagon. She, herself, escaped with only minor 'finger' bruises caused by the 'weapons search' and a gash on the head from being tossed into the wagon. Her friends weren't so lucky. Those hand-cuffed Darkies, all claiming innocence, who hadn't resisted arrest, still needed to be 'softened up' so they wouldn't be no trouble... and remember their proper place.
Next came the interrogation laboratory and the All-Truth serum injection. It burned. She screamed and immediately began babbling within a timeless, floating, distorted nightmare without remembrance.
Christine awakened naked on a cold, concrete cell floor amid snickering projected from shadowy figures beyond grey iron bars. She scooted into the furthest corner away from them and covered herself as best she could. "Pigs!" she shouted, which prompted a return volley of guttural cat-calls from the onlookers. "Let's rut, baby." "Oink, oink." "Suwee, suwee."
The trial was short, but not sweet. The court appointed public defender argued Christine, as opposed to her co-defendants, had no