“Ain’t that the truth,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“The plants don’t seem to mind.” She disappears offscreen.
Joad takes her place. “That’s ’cause they ain’t got ears.”
“Too true,” she says, the sound of her voice a couple meters away, “but that doesn’t mean they can’t hear. Durango, I’m putting one of the hairs under the ’scope to see where it came from. Hmm. No maker’s mark, so it’s definitely not bioengineered. Never seen a hair structure like this before. Amazing. It’s quite a find. I would do an article on it if I weren’t up to my elbows in running a collective.”
She reappears, a dropper in hand. “Now, I could tell you that it’s going to sting a little, but that would be a lie.”
Using the dropper, she plops the medicine into my eye. The pain is like scalding fury, and I jerk my head to the side.
“Joad,” Rebecca says. “Please hold his head still. Durango, I am sorry, but you will go blind without the drops.”
“Wà kào, that burns!” I tell Mimi.
“I am aware of that, cowboy. Your synapses lit up like the capital celebrating Spirit Festival. Ouch! There they go again. I know it is difficult for you, but from my perspective, pain can be quite beautiful.”
“Thanks—ow!—for your sympathy.”
“It is not exactly sympathy. Ooh, pretty synapses.”
“All done,” Rebecca says, and places a gauze pad over my eye. She applies slight pressure, and I notice that I’m beginning to feel more sensations than before.
When she removes the pad, I blink three times. It doesn’t burn as much.
“You can blink? The pancuronium bromide must be wearing off a little early. I’m going to give you something for pain in the meantime. Like I said, somebody did a number on that handsome face of yours, and there’s lots of soft tissue damage. Do yourself a favor. Don’t look in a mirror for at least a week.”
Joad hands Rebecca a serum cartridge and a syringe gun. She loads the cartridge, places it against my shoulder, and fires.
Crack! Rebecca examines the gun. The hypodermic is broken in half. “What the hell happened?”
“You broke the needle,” Joad says.
“It wasn’t me,” she says. “It’s his symbiarmor. It solidified when the lance inserted. Pull up his shirt.”
“Mimi,” I say. “What happened?”
“Just as she said, when the lance pierced the outer layer of your armor, the nanobots signaled the fibers to interweave.”
“But I wasn’t under a threat.”
“The nanobots thought you were. Did you know that the threads in symbiarmor were derived from modified yam fibers?”
I’m not in the least bit interested in legume trivia. “Override the ’bots, then. I’m not crazy about hair getting plucked from my eyes, but I wouldn’t mind a little help with this pain.”
“I will endeavor, but . . .”
“But what?”
“The ’bots are also tied into the telemetry functions. Without them, I don’t have as much control over your suit as before.”
“Bugger.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Rebecca reappears into view. “Sorry, Durango, more bad news. The shot has to go into your gut. Good news is, it won’t burn nearly as badly as the drops did.”
“It’s stuck,” Joad says. “The shirt.”
“Symbiarmor can be stubborn. Just give it a good yank.”
“No, I mean really stuck. As in, stuck to his skin.”
“No way.” She disappears from view. “Let me see.”
“See?” Joad says. “Told you so.”
“It’s . . . wow,” Rebecca says. “The nanofabric seems to have grafted itself to the skin there. And here, too. I’ve never seen it do that before. Durango, when you’re back on your feet, you’ll need to see a programmer about rebooting your suit. The nanobots appear to be overresponding to stimuli. They’re designed to bond with your skin during impact to minimize force, but your ’bots aren’t letting go. Wait, here’s a spot where the fabric is coming loose.”
“The nanobots are doing what?” I ask Mimi.
“Obviously, they seem to be grafting the fabric to your flesh,” Mimi says. “Were you not listening?”
“I was hoping for a less technical description. You know, like, they aren’t supposed to do that. It’s weird.”
“They are not supposed to do that. It is weird.”
“Ha-ha.”
The syringe gun clicks. I feel something warm wash over my body. My eye rolls back into my head. “Wow. That was quick.”
“It certainly was,” Mimi says, the sound of her voice slurring in my ear. “Ta-ra-ra boom-de-a. We are having slop today. Sing with me.”
My lips move. No sound comes out.
“That’ll hold you for a few hours, Regulator,” Rebecca says as the room begins to melt away. “My god. It’s grafted to his legs, too. I’ve never seen anything like this, even when I worked for Zealand Corp, and there was always something weird going on.”
“Did she just say Zealand?” I mumble to Mimi.
But Mimi’s not listening. “Nighty night, cowboy. See you in the mo-rn-ing.”
Chapter 13
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!”
Chapter 14
Freeman Farming Collective
Zealand Prefecture
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 24. 11:04
Minutes turn slowly into hours. Hours stretch into three days, which seem to last an infinity. The weather turns warmer, and monsoon season starts, bringing sticky air and torrential rains. The infirmary becomes a sauna, the air itself stifling. I feel just as stifled by my own body’s weakness. When Rebecca tries to stuff me with medication, I refuse it. Pain tells me how far I’ve come and how far I have left to go.
When I’m not sleeping and haunted by dreams of chigoe dissolving the flesh from my bones, I pass the time by trying to rest, but my waking hours are haunted by my failure to protect Vienne. The image of her furious, unarmed attack on the Sturmnacht becomes a well of shame that I keep falling into.
The MUSE data doesn’t seem so important now. My father and his secrets can go straight to hell for all I care. I can live the life of a dalit, but I can’t live without Vienne.
“However,” Mimi says, “I would like to finish the defragmentation of the data from Tharsis Two and interweave it with the intel we already possess. Unless you object.”
“Knock yourself out.”
To occupy my mind, I start little projects to keep my hands—check that, hand—busy. Like disassembling a nearby bed by removing all of the bolts and screws. With the parts, I fashion a metal crutch and begin hobbling around the infirmary, strengthening my knee and improving my balance. It’s remarkable how different the world looks when you can only see half of it.
Eventually, I dig through the cabinets, rummaging for a sheet of electrostat. I wipe away the old data on yield rates of sorghum planting and begin drawing a detailed diagram of Outpost Tharsis Two. Vienne is still there. I can feel it. All I have to do is find her.
“It will be difficult to pull off,” Mimi warns me.
“That’s why it’s going to work.”
A few minutes later, I’m hobbling down a lane in the collective, using the metal crutch for support. The morning is already too warm, and sweat is beading on my lip. Bad weather rolled in with the dawn, and the sky is an undulating string of charcoal clouds.
When they see me coming, the farmers stop and point. Some of them are brazen enough to laugh. As a Regulator, you get used to folks in form-fitting armor, and you forget that everyone doesn’t dress that way. You also get used to a modicum of respect. The farmers aren’t accustomed to that, either.
I try to ignore their stares. Subconsciously, I fiddle with the hem of my shirt where it overlaps the pants. The seam joins automatically, and when I run my fingers along it, it’s supposed to separate. Supposed to. Right now, I realize, it’s not separating at all.
“Mimi, read me in on the status of my symbiarmor.”
“The two parts seem to be fused together.”
I spin in a circle, trying to pull my shirttail loose. “Fused? Fused?”
“Remain calm,” she says. “The situation is not critical.”
“Not critical? My pants are stuck!” The farmers’ children are watching and listening intently, and I realize that I’ve been shouting. I subvocalize, “How am I supposed to, you know, do my business?”
“It may be a temporary condition,” she explains. “Perhaps a side effect of the
EMP pulse.”
“You’re grasping for straws.”
“I do not grasp,” Mimi says. “I analyze.”
“What does your analysis say?”
“Indeterminate.”
“Mimi!”
“There is just not enough data yet.”
“You’re infuriating!” I bellow. “We’re talking bladder function here!”
The kids scatter.
“And you, cowboy, are scaring the children.”
“I’m a broken-armed Cyclops in stretchy pants standing in the middle of the street yelling about piss. Of course I’m scaring the children!”
It’s not doing any good to make a spectacle of myself, so I hobble onward. From behind, I hear the rumble of a rover, followed by the squeak of grit-filled brakes. My neck is sore, so I don’t bother looking back.
“Going somewhere?” It’s Rebecca. She trots up behind me. A gunnysack hangs in the crux of her elbow, and she offers her other arm. “Take some of the weight off that knee. Come on, I’ve carried calves heavier than you.”
“Appreciate the offer,” I say. “But I have to decline.”
“Not really into that whole trust thing, huh?” she says, wrinkling up her nose.
My hands are sweating with effort of walking, and my head is ringing from the tinnitus in my ears. “I’m a Regulator. If I can’t bear my own weight, how can I lead?”
“Even the chief,” she scolds, “needs a day off sometimes.”
If only it were that easy. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you found me?” I dig the crutch into the gravel-covered ground. “Other than escorting me to the gate?”
“Thought you might like some company?” she says.
I wipe my brow with my right hand. “Try again.”
“Not buying it, huh?” she says. “Okay, two reasons. One, I wanted to make sure that you were well enough to leave. Which you obviously are. You heal fast.”
I pause, waiting her out. “The second reason?”
“Straight to the point, too.” She opens a palm. The iris of an ocular prosthetic looks up at me. “We had to do a little digging in medical storage to find it. Folks here are always losing body parts, so we keep a few spares around just in case. The color doesn’t match yours, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?”
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