by Liam Clay
So what does all of this mean? Maybe nothing. Or it could mean that the Hawks plan to solve their slave surplus with mass murder. But if I'm right, then where are the bodies? A second search provides me with a potential answer. One section of the electric fence runs along the canal bank. There is a gate set into it. And most of the red streaks are located nearby. This seals things for me. Now I just have to figure out what to do about it.
By the time I get back to the rover department, I have formed the rudiments of a plan. But I decide not to tell my friends about it - or Delez - until I've accomplished the first step. The next day, I get a chance to visit the excursion suit department. It is much different than my own place of work. Our floor is dominated by a heavy-duty robotic assembly line, with workers managing specialist functions within it. But this department is much quieter. It is divided into sections, each of which produces a different suit system. The workers remind me of jewelers or watchmakers in their devotion to miniaturized precision.
Bruin is among them. I find him crouched over a table, a pair of magnifying glasses clipped to the bridge of his nose. He is working on a retractable helmet made of overlapping steel plates. He glances up when I slide in beside him, and then continues working.
“I need to talk to you.” I say.
He doesn't reply, but I press on anyway.
“I don't have much time, so I'll be quick. I think the Hawks are planning to kill off most of the workers here once this project is done. But I need your help getting proof.”
I expect him to ignore me. Instead he looks up, and I see a new type of fear in his face.
“I think you might be right.”
“What? Why?”
“Because last week, the guys who assemble the onboard computers for these suits filled their last orders. And the next day, they were gone. The Hawks said they'd been transferred to a different department. But I've been asking around, and no one has seen them since.”
“Then please, help me.”
He fits another plate onto the helmet he's working on. But his hands are shaking now, and when he speaks again, his voice is too.
“What do you need?”
I tell him, and he promises to do his best. Then I hurry off under the watchful eye of the department supervisor. That evening, I am tempted to tell my friends everything. At the very least, Peace deserves to know about Delez.
But if I tell her, I have no idea what she'll do. And if I tell the others what I'm about to do, they will probably try to stop me. Or more likely, insist on going themselves. And I don't want to put them in danger. This is my stupid plan, and so I should be the idiot who carries it out.
CHAPTER 20
In the dead of night, I leave the dorm. The Sun never truly sleeps, but the corridors are relatively quiet. I pad through the factory until I reach the entrance to Bruin's department. There is a barrel of drinking water next to the door. First, I plunge my prosthetic in. If it's going to seize up underwater, I need to know sooner rather than later. But after a full minute of immersion, it is still working as normal. Satisfied, I dunk my head in as well. And there, at the bottom of the barrel, are the goods. Just where Bruin said they'd be.
I retrieve the camera first. The device has a built-in light, and was designed to clip onto the shoulder of an excursion suit. But it is a self-contained unit that should work on its own. Pocketing the camera, I lift out the second item. This one, I'm less confident in. It is a rebreather apparatus torn out of an excursion helmet. Its mouthpiece is attached to a small cylinder by a meter-long hose. The thing looks like a piece of half-finished junk, but I'll just have to trust that Bruin knows what he's doing.
Then I'm off through the hallways again. When it was just me, I could have invented a reason for being here. But this gear will be hard to explain away. Entering the Sun's main chamber, I skirt its edge, clinging to the shadows where I can. The last panels have already been shipped out, making the space feel oddly empty.
The bay door is closed, but a smaller one beside it is open to allow for late night deliveries. I slip through and out onto the docks. Floodlamps illuminate the surrounding cranes, casting their shadows across the water. The night is cloudy and humid. Turning right, I follow the canal all the way to the electrified fence. Then I find a short length of chain and wrap it around my waist. When this is done, I bite down on the rebreather and take a few exploratory breaths. The device seems to work. Well, here goes nothing. Taking a long step forward, I drop into the drink.
The water is oily warm and dark as pitch. I float just below the surface for a moment, and then the chain drags me downward. I have no idea how deep the ocean is here, or how long the rebreather will sustain me. But for the time being, I can breathe, and that is a good start.
I sink deeper, and the pressure grows. It's probably not safe to descend this fast, but I'm committed now. It is utterly black. I feel like some eyeless creature of the abyss, creeping down into the darkest places. Panic is starting to gnaw at the edges of my resolve. Then my feet hit ground, and I tumble slowly onto my side. And there I rest, a speck of nothing in the void. Maybe this is what being an astronaut felt like, back when we still had the ability to reach space. Once my heartbeat has steadied, I pull out the camera. After a few failed tries, I get its light to turn on. And immediately start to scream around the rebreather's mouthpiece.
A few weeks underwater will do some horrible things to a pile of corpses. Thank god Vorashia didn't have this memory to bury me in, or my brain would be a twisted pool noodle by now. Nor does it help that on some level, I am actually happy to find these bodies here. This is the leverage I've been so desperately seeking. I just wish I wasn't lying on top of it.
I start to snap photos of the scene. At first, I make an effort to capture the bloated faces and shark-bitten torsos around me. But that proves too much to take, and by the end I'm just shooting blind. When the job is done, I untie the chain and let it fall to the seafloor. And now I'm shooting back up toward the surface. The pressure change plays havoc with my eardrums, but I clear the surface in one piece, coughing and hacking.
“Hello, my lovely.”
If it was possible to fall down while treading water, I would do so. Nem is bobbing along beside me, messaging from within the shadows of the canal bank. His words are reflected in the water, creating a mirrored effect that makes them hard to read.
“Do you know how long I've been watching the Sun, waiting for you to appear?” He says. “And then when you do, it's straight to the bottom of the ocean. I would have been quite cross if you'd drowned.”
“My apologies. How have you been?”
“Frustrated. Security here is much tighter than in the quarter. It's been hard to remain undetected, and I've gotten very little sabotage done.”
“Where have you been staying?”
“I have a nook out in the fog near the canal entrance. But enough about me. How are things going inside the factory? Have you made any new revolutionary friends?”
“They're more like acquaintances, and not the least bit revolutionary I’m afraid.”
I briefly outline my efforts to convince the slaves, and their response.
“Oh dear. Is that why you prefer the company of fish now?”
“Not exactly. The Hawks are nearly finished their latest project, and have started to kill off slaves who are no longer necessary. They've been dumping the bodies into the canal, and now I've got proof.”
“How awful of them and enterprising of you. I have some news too, actually. And it may be connected.”
“What is it?”
“Vorashia is back. And this time, she's leading an entire slaver army.”
“Shit. I was hoping it would take them longer to get here. Have they started to clear out the entertainment quarter yet?”
“No. Anex, they're here in the crater, shacked up inside an unused factory.”
“Here? Why?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. And I think you just have.”
/> “How?”
“Once their project is done, the Hawks will want to finish their slave cull. And they could have hired the crews to oversee the process.”
“That's possible. The Hawks barely have any guards of their own. Who needs them, when your workforce is so obedient?”
“So where does that leave us?”
A courier jogs past on the far bank, forcing me to retreat into the shadows beside Nem. His worm-pale face should remind me of the corpses below. Instead, I find his presence comforting. Friends can be found in strange places.
“It leaves us with very little time.” I tell him. “Unless their schedule changes, the Hawks will be handing over the project’s last shipment in just under two weeks. The cull will probably happen not long after that. So if we’re going to do something, it had better be quick.”
The albino nods. “Whatever you decide, I will be ready.” He holds a hand out of the water, and I reach up to shake it... with my prosthetic.
“Whoa there!” The albino chortles. “What's all this then?”
“Oh, you know, just a little something my masters cooked up.”
His laughter subsides, and he reaches up to touch the frequency jacks in his ears. “I know what it feels like to get part of yourself back after an absence. But remember, what has been given can be taken away.”
“I know. And thank you for everything.”
“Are you kidding? You may not have noticed, but I'm something of a thrill seeker. And mayhem would seem to be your middle name.”
.
The next morning, I tell my friends everything. They're angry, of course. But I'm mostly concerned about Peace. The moment I mention Delez, she pulls her hair trick again. I can only imagine the emotions that must be running through her head. Relief, at knowing that her husband is still alive. Despair, that he is voluntarily working for the Null. And the hardest of all: hope, that it might be possible to cure him. Our shift is about to start, but she will not say a word. And when the time comes, she gets up and leaves without us. We have no choice but to let her go.
I ditched the rebreather in the canal after my conversation with Nem. But the camera I keep on me, in case I get a chance to visit Bruin. I don't though, and the thing burns a hole in my pocket the entire day. I can't stop thinking about the images it contains, and what they mean for the rest of us. Not to mention what will happen if I'm caught with them.
By the time I manage to see Bruin again, we’re just over a week out from final delivery. And although no one else has mentioned anything, the Sun feels a little bit emptier than before. I place a parts order with the excursion suit department's version of me, and then wander over to speak with Bruin.
“What’ve you got for me?” He murmurs.
I pass him the camera. He glances around, places the viewer to his eye, and starts to scroll. But a few pictures in, the device drops from his hands. I catch the thing before it hits the table, but we still get a few strange looks.
“Pretty gruesome, huh?” I say.
“It's not just that.” He replies shakily. “I saw them in one of the photos.”
“Saw who?”
“My coworkers, the ones who disappeared. They were all together, stacked in a pile with concrete blocks around their feet.”
“Jesus. I'm sorry, Bruin.”
“Don't be. I needed to see this, I think. To remind me of what will happen if we do nothing. And I’m ready to fight now - for real, this time. What should we do, though?”
“I need to show these photos to as many people as possible. Can you get them developed into hard copies?”
“No, but I could dupe them onto more cameras. Would that work?”
“It should. How long will that take?”
“Give me a day.”
“I'll try to come back tomorrow then.”
.
In the dorm that night, Peace continues to shut us out. I'm worried that if we don't try to free Delez soon, she might go it alone and get herself killed. But short of hijacking the Null freighter and making a run for it, I have no ideas aside from the one I'm already pursuing. Tikal's presence is a comfort, but she is just as frustrated as me. It feels like the walls are closing in.
The next day around mid-morning, the first stage of the rover assembly line churns out its final piece of work. And by the afternoon, the line is totally inactive. We mill about in groups, not sure what to do with ourselves. Then the PA system crackles, and Simons comes on.
“Your attention please. In one week, our client will be arriving to collect their last product shipment. This will mark the end of the largest project in Ninetown's history. And in honor of that fact, the city's shareholders have asked us to hold a celebration. You will all be allowed to participate, and to watch the final handover. Until then, everyone is being given free time and drink rations as a reward for hard work. Thank you.”
As the PA goes dead, I scan the factory floor. The most common reaction from our coworkers seems to be confusion. Clearly, this is not a regular occurrence. I'm not sure whether this turn of events will work in our favor, or against it. But it does mean that I can visit Bruin without fear of being caught. Nodding to my friends, I leave the department.
And return with no less than six cameras, each with a macabre slideshow loaded onto it. The department floor is empty, so I head back to the dorm. Only to find it in a strange state. Bottles of spirit have been handed out, and many of the workers are already piss drunk. But others are refusing to touch the stuff, which I take as a good sign. Maybe they suspect something too. I join my friends, and we hold a council of war.
To Tikal falls the task of getting a message to Calendo. The rest of us head out on the campaign trail. We start right there in our dorm, focusing on the slaves who have abstained from drink. I lose count of how many people I show the pictures to. Then I start again from zero, and lose track of that tally too. But the message is always the same: be ready to fight, because the Hawks are coming for you next. And your friends, and your lovers, and everyone else you know.
Reactions, unsurprisingly, are mixed. More than one person tries to fight me. Some simply cannot comprehend what I'm telling them, and others collapse into despair. But mostly, I encounter simple indecision. Once our dorm has been covered off, we disperse through the drunken factory like the world's biggest party poopers.
I develop a secret weapon though, and his name is Peppin. Armed with the sixth camera, he becomes an unstoppable persuading machine. Where my arguments are bluntly factual, his are gothic castles built of hope and horror. It really is incredible to watch. The slaves hang on his every word, and often promise their unwavering support afterwards.
We press the flesh for six days straight. Under normal circumstances, I'm sure we would have been caught. But the Hawks are enjoying some downtime of their own, and don't pay us much attention. They've just smashed out the biggest project in Ninetown's ugly history, on time and under budget. Their fake god must be fucking ecstatic.
CHAPTER 21
And then, suddenly, it’s delivery day. That morning, the vibe in the dorm is a bizarre mixture of denial, terror, rage and general hungoverness. When Simons comes on the PA to 'invite' us all to the docks for the ceremony, a crazy wailing cheer goes up. I find the sound absolutely bone chilling.
Under the Hawks’ watchful eyes, we leave our department and travel through the Sun. Thousands of other workers are doing the same thing. We emerge into the factory's main chamber, and trudge out through the bay door. Despite the hour, it’s already hot as hell. I wouldn't be surprised if it hits 50 Celsius today. Looking up, I see that a stage has been erected between two of the dock's largest cranes.
Dr. Alan is up there, looking more robotic than ever. She is joined by a group of invariably obese men and women dressed in expensive (and by that I mean gaudy) attire. These must be some of Ninetown's key shareholders. There is also a younger, disheveled looking man with a tangled mane of black hair and heavy five o’clock shadow. I can't ima
gine who he might be. Until he speaks, at which point I recognize him as the stadium auctioneer. Glancing around, I see that cameramen have taken up positions atop some of the smaller cranes.
“Well isn't this a treat!” The auctioneer says. A throat mic picks up his voice and casts it through speakers positioned around the crater. “To everyone here today, and to the rest of you watching from across our fair city, I bid a fine welcome. Any moment now, the Hawks will be handing over the final piece of the truly epic puzzle they have created. If maps of the world still existed, this would put Ninetown firmly onto them. And in honor of this momentous occasion, we're having a party! Or a parade, or maybe a community festival - my bosses weren’t quite clear. Anyway, it has to be more fun than moving heavy shit around all day, right? And... ah, here comes the client now!”
Crowd and cameras turn as one. The black freighter cleaves the fog at the canal's entrance, and moves toward us without a sound. The auctioneer lets the moment sit, creating an air of anticipation that settles over the docks like a shroud. The freighter noses into its berth. And as before, Delez is up on deck, overseeing the operation. I feel Peace go stiff beside me. But I place a warning hand on her shoulder, and she manages to stay calm.
Behind us, the crowd shifts. I turn with it. And there, framed in the bay door, is what must be the ship's figurehead. Standing at least five meters tall, it is a statue representing a man. He is of Middle Eastern descent, with wavy black hair, delicate cheekbones and almond shaped eyes. In truth, there is nothing particularly unique about him. But he is so incredibly lifelike, and his face so expressive, that I instantly feel like I know the man.
“You can color me impressed!” The auctioneer exclaims. “I have no idea who he's supposed to be, but I know good craftsmanship when I see it.”
The crowd parts as workers push the statue forward on roller wheels. A crane is brought into position. Longshoremen connect its cable to a hook on the figurehead's back, and it is lifted off the ground. When the statue has been lowered safely onto the freighter's deck, Null sailors start to lash it down with straps.