by Liam Clay
“Here's a decent one.” He says, referring to the woman who has gone up ahead of me. “Fairly symmetrical, not too much plaque on those teeth. A little ugly, but that's not her fault. Can I hear an 800? That's right, people, a steal of a deal. These may be trying times, but crisis always brings opportunity with it.”
He drones on and on, eventually selling the woman for 1,150 rounds. Then it's my turn. I swagger out onto the bridge, blowing kisses to the crowd on the way.
“Would you look at this, ladies and gentlemen! It's the Live Soldier, back for more. And nearly being eaten by the White Shade must have agreed with him, because he's in top spirits! Or maybe he's just relieved to be out of the entertainment quarter.”
There are some scattered boos from the crowd.
“Oh come off it!” The auctioneer shouts back. “Not talking about the problem isn't going to make it go away. Anyway, this particular specimen sold for a whopping 50K the last time he was here. I know we're not going to hit that mark again, but let's at least try to make it competitive, okay? Nobody else in the crater can match what the Hawks are paying these days, but I'm hoping to see a dark horse from the neighborhood pull off an upset.
I reach the suspended disc. There to greet me is the same muscular woman from last time. She bows me toward the selling block. I pause to smile for the cameras, and then I'm vaulting up onto the square of red stone. The last time I was here, even standing was beyond me. But a lot has changed since then. The auctioneer seems to agree.
“Would you look at this guy? If I could afford the Live Soldier, I would buy him myself. Now, do I have 2,000?”
In the stands, I catch movement from a woman in a midnight blue coat. She raises her paddle, and the cameras swing her way.
“And here come the Hawks, bidding right out of the gate as usual. I wasn't sure about this one, seeing as he's got no arm, but word is the Hawk Group has been moving hard into cyber-prosthetics. So maybe they've got it covered.”
The auctioneer continues to talk, and the high bid keeps creeping upward. But I'm no longer following the play by play. Did he just say prosthetics? No, I refuse to think about that. I'm finally starting to accept this new version of me, and obsessing over tech-based fixes would be a step in the wrong direction. Plus any prosthetic given to a slave would probably be a piece of shit anyway.
I tune back in just in time to hear myself being sold yet again. The winning bid was only 6,000 rounds this time - a far cry from 50,000. But the auctioneer seems relatively satisfied.
“Bought by a Hawk! Just like - let's face it - we all knew he would be. But at least the neighborhood made it interesting. Alright Anex, you can go meet your new masters now. What they lack in personality, the Hawks make up for with buckets of cash. Not that you'll see any of it.”
I recross the bridge to find the woman in blue waiting for me. She is a question mark of a person: generically attractive, devoid of distinguishing features, expressionless and of average build. My past has been carved into my flesh, but this woman is the complete opposite. She looks like someone just unpacked her from a box.
“Come with me, please.”
Without waiting for a reply, she leads me over to a group of men and women in identical apparel.
“You may sit down.” She tells me. “We are still 24 purchases away from meeting today's quota. It will be some time before we leave.”
Over the next hour, the Hawks proceed to buy almost every slave that goes up for sale. Bruin is no exception. He takes a seat beside me and leans over, pitching his voice low.
“We did it, man. Just like that, I'm going home. But these guys don't look like no pushovers.”
“Not so far. We'll just have to take things as they come, I guess.”
“Roger that. Did you hear what the auctioneer said about prosthetics though?”
“Yeah.”
He looks down at the stumps of his arms. “Do you think it could be true?”
“I'm not going to hold my breath.”
“And you don't think I should either. That makes sense. But still...”
In the row below us, the Hawks are settling up with one of the auction’s staff. The man departs with a bucketful of rounds, and the blue woman turns to address us.
“My name is Dr. Alan. As of now, all of you are officially Hawk property. This is good news for you, because we are not like the other Ninetown factories. Hit your production targets, and you will enjoy a comfortable life with us. You will also be given the chance to learn new skills. And as your value to the company increases, so will your compensation levels.”
Bruin has been shifting beside me, and now he raises his arm.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to give me new hands?”
“That will depend on a number of factors. Now please stand.”
Twenty odd slaves rise to their feet. The Hawks fall in around us. We travel through the engine room and down the corridor that leads to the factory crater. I've been calling it that for weeks now, but I still don't know what the term means. My anticipation grows as we move deeper into the pyramid. It looks as though my plan has paid off. If Tikal and the others really are working for Hawk, we will be reunited shortly. Then we can win the laborers to our cause, overthrow the slavers, and go looking for Delez. Piece of cake.
It takes almost an hour to reach our destination. I spend most of it trying to form an image of the factory crater in my head. I already know that it is far larger than the entertainment quarter, and open to the air as well. I’m also going to assume that it’s, you know, crater shaped. But even armed with this information, a mental image refuses to come. And when we finally step out into the crater, I find out why.
CHAPTER 17
I have no idea what I'm looking at. Or rather, there is simply too much to take in all at once. So I decide to break my inspection down into bitesized pieces of information.
Fact 1: The crater is a somewhat misleading name. It is actually a perfectly smooth bowl a number of kilometers across.
Fact 2: This bowl looks like it was once a hollow sphere. But when the pyramid went up in flames, most of the sphere's shell was burned away, leaving only its lower section intact. What remains is indeed open to the sky.
Fact 3: A wedge shaped section has been cut out of the crater. The sea flows in there, creating a channel that leads to the open ocean. A dockyard to rival the Outpost's has been built around it.
Fact 4: Is where things start to get confusing. The crater is home to a host of colossal structures that defy easy description. One is a mass of dead plant life built around a latticed framework. Another is a giant funnel constructed of glassy gossamer strands. A third resembles an insane beehive. And the largest, which occupies the exact center of the crater, looks like the sun.
Fact 5: Is the strangest of all. Each of these structures appears to have been dropped from a great height. That fall has warped and twisted them, making it difficult to guess their original function. But none of that has stopped the Ninetowners from hollowing the structures out and using them to house their factories.
We have entered the crater high up on its eastern side. A staircase has been bolted to its curved surface, leading all the way down to the base of the bowl. Alan does a brief headcount, and then we begin our descent.
Up until now, I haven't thought too much about the society that built the pyramid. But that was before I saw this. It's suddenly easy to understand why the Ninetowners are superstitious, and why they're so afraid of Nem in his role as the White Shade. If I thought the people who built these structures might still be lurking around - even as ghosts - I would be running for the goddamn hills.
The Hawks lead us straight down into the crater. The slope degrades, until we are walking across more or less flat ground. The first of the factories rears up before us. At its foot, a walled village has been erected, and I see slaves passing in and out. Smoke from hundreds of cook fires rises into the sky. They're using dried kelp for fuel, and the air smells of
fried fish; these people must rely on the sea rather than Stormline shipments for survival. Beside the village, a large cistern sits next to a machine that I suspect is a desalinator.
We're approaching the Sun now. Of all the structures here, it is the most intact. The sphere's lower section was crushed flat in its fall, but otherwise the thing is all but undamaged. Its reflective surface is almost too bright to look at, except where tangled wiring spills from occasional breaks in its skin.
We are heading toward a gigantic bay door in the structure’s side. There is also a second, even larger portal a quarter turn around the Sun. It faces directly onto the wedge-shaped canal, which has its terminus here. The docks that line its sides are playing host to unfamiliar ships; this must be where clients come to collect their completed goods. Further out, the waterway becomes more like a river canyon cutting through the crater's upcurved side. A white haze obscures the point where it passes beyond the crater's edge, but the ocean must be somewhere out there.
We step into the Sun's shadow. The bay door engulfs us, and we enter a factory floor almost as big as the engine room. There are workers everywhere, going about their business with speed and intent. The chamber is dominated by an industrial mold over fifty meters long. Examples of its output are standing all around us. They are massive curved sections of heavy-duty shielding. Welders hang from ropes around them, spot-checking for defaults. There is something vaguely clandestine about the whole enterprise. It's like this is the crash site of an alien spaceship, and I'm watching the old American government try to put it back together again.
And maybe I'm not so far off. This isn't an alien spaceship - it's a human space station. Or it will be, anyway. And who do I know that would have the resources to commission a project like this?
“Oh fuck.”
“What's wrong?” Bruin whispers.
“Nothing. I just figured something out, is all. And it isn't good news.”
Or is it? If the Null really are paying the Hawks to build them a space station, then this could be our chance to sabotage that effort. But now a new thought occurs to me.
Balthazar discovered two vessels at the bottom of that shallow sea. One was an orbital station, and the other was a spaceship capable of interstellar flight. The Architect told us she wanted the station's black box because of the interstellar engine blueprints contained on it. But we've been assuming this was a lie, and that she really wants the plans for the larger vessel. With those plans, the Null could build a new version of Balthazar's station and gain orbital supremacy over the world. And now here they are, having a space station made for them. Does this mean they've already found the black box? And possibly killed Balthazar and the Kogis while they were at it? For Amy and the rest of humanity's sake, I hope not.
Alan leads us into an open plan office full of uniformed Hawks. Some are working on wafer-thin flatscreens, while others are immersed in holo-schematics and cascading number streams. Not since Worldpool have I encountered this level of tech, and the sight sets me back a bit. Bruin was right: these guys are no pushovers.
One end of the office is empty of furniture. We are ordered to line up in this space facing a set of swinging doors. To our right, a middle-aged administrator is shifting data around on a flatscreen. Then she swipes the info onto a mini-projector mounted to her chest, and approaches the first man in line. The holo-doc floats in mid-air between them, the data shifting outward so she can see the man's face.
“Resource 457273?”
The man reaches up to touch the number string on his cheek.
“That's me.”
“You have been assigned to industrial lab C, life support system unit. Your first shift starts in six hours. Go through these doors, turn left, and continue until you reach dorm eight. You may sleep there until it is time to start.”
The man pushes through the doors, and the line moves forward. Bruin is right behind me. And despite not being able to see him, I can sense his nervous energy. Since the moment prosthetics came onto the table, he has thought of little else. And as much as I'd like to pretend otherwise, I'm not doing any better. The administrator kills the line with clinical efficiency, until my turn comes. She looks me over, checks her holo-doc, and pronounces my fate.
“Resource 919369, you are expected in the bionic research lab immediately. Please step through the doors. Orderlies are waiting to escort you to the operating hall.”
This must be some kind of sick game. There is no way that after everything I've been through, a bunch of slavers are going to snap their fingers and magic me up a new arm. I push through the doors in a daze. A pair of stonefaced Hawks are waiting with two wheeled stretchers. One kneels down to remove my shoes and socks, which I can't imagine him being too happy about (I haven't showered in days). When he's done, the second man maneuvers me onto one of the stretchers.
Then I remember Bruin. What if they deny him his new hands? I wouldn't blame him for hating me if that happens. I sit up, preparing to argue on his behalf, or throw a few punches or... I don't know what, really. But the big man is already through the doors and steaming toward me, laughing all the way. He sweeps me up in a huge hug, and we start shouting at the top of our lungs. I get myself together first.
“Sorry for being so disorderly, uh... orderlies. You may prep the second patient.”
Before they can approach him, Bruin strips off his shoes and throws them down the hall. His socks go next. The Hawks wrestle him onto his stretcher, and now we're being wheeled through blindingly white hallways. I feel drunk, or maybe high. Loopy as hell, basically. I could wake up with three arms or none for all I know, but no amount of logic is going to kill this ride.
We reach a set of doors with 'Bionics Lab' stenciled on them. They open onto a walkway that overlooks a square chamber full of robotics equipment. But this is just a pass-through, and I don't get more than a quick glance at the R+D floor. A second door leads into the operating hall. It is spacious and dim, except for the pools of light that shine down on a dozen circular privacy curtains. All are closed except for two.
I lift my head to look for the surgeons. But aside from the orderlies, there is no one in sight. Then I notice the gleaming steel squid hanging over the operating table.
“We're going to be operated on by computers?” I say. “Between slavery and automation, it's no wonder unemployment is so high these days.”
I hope these robotic surgeons are more dedicated than the Colonizer's human ones. If they'd hung around long enough to finish the job, maybe my linked eye socket wouldn't look like a campfire pit. Granted, the arcology was under attack at the time, but my displeasure stands.
I've got a favor to ask.” I tell the orderlies.
“What is it?”
“Could you let me gas myself? I have a long history of being anaesthetized against my will, and it never seems to turn out well.”
“Fine.”
And now Bruin and I are being wheeled in separate directions.
“See you on the other side!” The slave calls out.
“If we survive, let's celebrate with a double high five.”
“Done.”
A minute later, I'm lying directly under the surgical apparatus. The orderly fiddles with a handheld and it comes to life: fans humming, lights blinking, tubes pumping viscous fluids from place to place. Then he hands me an anesthesia mask.
“Bottoms up.” I say, and the lights go down.
.
My eye flutters open. I am still on my stretcher, which has been moved to a recovery ward. Like the operating hall, it is large and sparsely lit. Ambient music plays quietly in the background. Something is different, vastly so, about the stump of my shoulder, but my nerve endings aren't willing to tell me what. They probably don't know either. For ten minutes I remain utterly still, too afraid to look at what I have become. Below the music I can hear the room’s other occupants, breathing together in a layered rhythm. Finally the suspense grows too great, and I turn my head.
My ar
m is still missing. But instead of a stump, my shoulder ends in a simple white socket. The composite material has been fused to my skin, which is still red and raw from the procedure. What is this? Frustrated, I try to make a fist with my absent hand. Servos kick in, and gears shift inside the socket. Before I can properly absorb this sensation, a woman appears at my bedside. She has a stern look about her that translates as motherly, and her lab coat is white and pristine. In other words, she is the perfect embodiment of the doctor I'd been hoping would perform my surgery. And held in her arms is an arm, of sorts. Seeing me looking, she holds it up for my examination.
No effort has been made to make the prosthetic look like a real human appendage. It has doubled rods for bones, and plate shielding at the elbow. The fingers are finely made and incredibly complex, without looking at all delicate. The whole thing has been painted gray with white highlights, and the words Hawk Systems are lasercut into its side. The device reminds me of a high performance rifle or a velodrome speed bike - the kind of high tech toy that an Opacian movie exec would take great pride in owning despite not knowing how to use.
“Are you ready?” She asks.
I nod automatically, and she settles the prosthetic beside me on the stretcher.
“How does it work?” I ask before she can progress further.
“It's complicated.”
“Humor me.”
“As you wish. The med-bot started by extracting muscle grafts through a keyhole incision in your thigh. Those grafts were seeded with nerve endings taken from your deep shoulder tissue, and sutured to the stump. Over a period of days, bio-accelerant was used to speed nerve growth through the grafts, which were then -”
“Hold on, did you say days? How long was I under?”
“122 hours.” She cocks her head to one side. “Would you like me to continue?”