by Gates, J.
In the Company, it was a fight to succeed and win power and be respected. In the Protectorate, it’s a real fight, a war, a battle to the death. And right now, in this dark and lonely watch of the night, death doesn’t sound half bad.
~~~
What follows are three days of waiting. The first day I spend mostly asleep, recovering from the physical and emotional exhaustion of the battle. The second day I hardly eat, and I don’t talk to anyone. I merely walk around the camp for hours, staring at the faces of the honest soldiers around me as they go about their work, and trying to get used to the idea that my former life within the Company is truly and completely finished.
Twice I find myself standing outside the door to the infirmary where Clair lies recovering, but I don’t have the courage to go inside again. I just stand there staring at the closed door for a few minutes like a moron, then move on.
Before dinnertime arrives I’m exhausted again, and go to bed. As I wrap myself up in my privacy tent, beneath my Protectorate-issued holey woolen blanket, I wonder to myself which was more exhausting: the battle I fought in the prison block or the war I feel going on within myself when I think of Ethan and Clair enmeshed in each other’s arms?
The third day I wake up starving. Before half the camp is even awake, I head to the mess area and eat two and a half bowls of N-Chow—cheap, nutritionally fortified food pellets that N-Corp markets to low-credit-level workers—stuff my dad always called “human dog food.” I never had it before, but it’s actually not quite as bad as I thought it would be, at least in my ravenous state.
I spend all morning in the mess area, watching N-News on the portable imager there:
Another relic found on the Sinai Peninsula; this one is a scroll, perhaps written by Moses himself, listing an eleventh commandment: Thou Shalt Relish Hard Work. N-Corp scientists have confirmed that it is, indeed, authentic.
Authorities have revealed that anarchists attempted a prison break two days ago at a facility seventy miles southeast of N-Corp Headquarters. All involved were either arrested or killed (here’s some altered video footage).
And now, for more on our top story: Today, N-Corp CEO Jason Fields announced the merger of N-Corp with longtime rival B&S. In one result of the merger, thousands of debtor-workers at both companies received red slips this week, informing them they’ll be required to transfer to another location within the Company as part of the reorganization process. (On the screen: long lines of workers stand, holding red slips of paper.) Despite these minor inconveniences, experts agree that debtor-workers across the globe stand to benefit greatly from what’s being called the final consolidation. If all goes according to plan, the merger will be finalized a week from Friday, according to sources in both Companies.
Sitting a little further down the table from me is a tall, bearded man with dark, mirthful eyes. He nods knowingly and points his spoon at the imager.
“Ethan’s not going to let that stand,” he says. “Wait and see.”
“What do you think we’re going to do about it?” a sallow-faced man sitting across from him says. “We can’t even feed ourselves properly; you think we’re going to be able to stop a merger if that’s what old Fields really wants?” He pushes his bowl of N-Chow away in disgust.
“I think we’ll be on the move before next Friday, I’ll tell you that much. The general’s got something up his sleeve, guaranteed. The offensive is finally going to begin.”
The other man rolls his eyes peevishly. “Christ, you can’t see any further than the end of your own freaking nose, can you? If we could do something, we’d have already done it! That murderous butcher Fields is going to have us slaughtered, and I’m sick of sitting here waiting for it to happen.”
The man shoves away the table and rises to his feet. I’m on my feet, too. In an instant, I’ve grabbed his shirtfront and stand nose to nose with him.
“Jason Fields is not a murderer,” I say through clenched teeth.
The man’s eyes are wide with surprise at first, then narrow.
“Look, honey, if you’re a Company loyalist, I think you must have taken a wrong turn.”
He tries to extricate his shirt from my grasp by pushing me away, but I push him harder. He stumbles back a few steps and the expression on his face goes from one of irritation to one of fury.
“I’m no loyalist, and I’m not your honey,” I say.
The man looks from me to his bearded friend, apparently viewing us both with equal contempt. “You know what? Screw Jason Fields and screw General Greene, too. Screw all of you. You’re all nuts. I’m getting out of here before we all get slaughtered.”
“Screw me?” I shout. My famously short fuse already sizzled down to nothing, I charge him.
From out of the shadows, a figure emerges and steps between us—Ethan. “Stand down, soldiers,” he says with his usual calm.
My adversary takes a step back, stands up straight and salutes. “Sir. General. I’m sorry if—I didn’t mean to say . . . ”
Ethan gazes at him, and the man’s words fade into an uncomfortable silence.
“That’s alright, soldier,” Ethan says quietly. “Worse has been said about me. And I’ll bet worse has been said about CEO Fields, too.” He finishes with a glance at me. “May, could you come with me, please?”
~~~
Ethan and I step into the makeshift council chamber to find the twelve-member council (minus the still-recovering Clair) assembled and waiting for us. They rise as we enter the room, and Ethan immediately urges them to take their seats.
Since I don’t warrant a seat at the council table, I sit in a metal folding chair by the door. The emotions I felt the last time I was in this room, when the council was deciding whether or not to have me executed, come flooding back to me, and for a moment I’m afraid that they’ve changed their minds and decided to shoot me after all. But everyone in the room ignores my presence completely, instead focusing expectantly on Ethan.
“So, the reason for our meeting today,” he begins placidly, “is that the merger date has been announced. By any measure, it’s an important historical event for the world. Although the two Companies have been working in concert for many years now, it will be the first time in the history of humankind that every man, woman, and child on earth is ruled under one single governing entity. And I don’t need to remind any of you of that entity’s true, immoral nature.”
“Of course not,” Grace agrees, “but what do you intend to do about it?”
Ethan touches the screen of the IC in his hand and the imager on the wall behind him flares to life with a map of a city on it. “N-Hub 2,” he says. “Formerly New York City. Back when there were hundreds of companies, their stocks were traded here, at the New York Stock Exchange.”
He presses a button and the image changes to one of a beautiful, old-fashioned stone building with huge columns and, above them, an elaborately carved pediment.
“Most people are unaware that this structure, in the district formerly known as Wall Street, is still the place where the computer that tracks the two Companies’ stocks is actually housed. And, our intelligence tells us, this is one of the locations from which N-Corp Media will be broadcasting as they celebrate the merger.”
Ethan touches his IC again, and again the imager changes, this time to a feed from N-News Live. A news anchor prattles away, but the sound is muted. At the bottom of the screen, a ticker slides past—the stock price of the Companies, N-Corp and B&S. Naturally, the average worker doesn’t care much about the daily fluctuations in stock price, and for a while there were discussions of getting rid of the N-Media ticker altogether, but my father fought tooth and nail to keep it.
“Of course it’s basically a meaningless, arbitrary number now that all the capital in the world is tied up in Company stock that no one can buy or sell,” he remarked once, “but it gives
the people something to root for, by God! Something to work for. ‘Come on guys, let’s get this stock price up!’ they’ll say to each other, and they’ll work harder. It’s a motivator.”
And it was. From then on, the stock ticker remained at the bottom of every N-Corp Media program. More times than I can count I overheard conversations about people wistfully wishing the stock price would go up, or dolefully debating about why it had dropped, or dutifully working an extra half hour, in the interest of fulfilling Jimmy Shaw’s admonition: “Productiveness is next to Godliness—let the stock price be your guide!”
Truly, millions in the Company were obsessive ticker-watchers. And, I realize, Ethan is right. The merging of the two ticker-numbers into one will be a momentous event, the most immediately tangible demonstration of the new, unified Company.
“Destroy the Wall Street mainframe,” Ethan finishes, “and the ticker stops.”
“So what exactly are you suggesting?” the grizzled Grace asks, eyeing Ethan warily. “Aside from the headquarters, the Stock Exchange has to be the most heavily guarded location in the most closely controlled hub in all of America Division. And on the day of the merger, with a live worldwide broadcast going on, the security is going to be tighter than ever. Obviously you’re not proposing a direct attack on the Stock Exchange building on that day, are you?”
“Actually,” Ethan replies, “that’s exactly what I’m proposing.”
~~~
Ethan and I walked into the council assembly before 8 am , and the debate lasts until well after midnight. The council was split into three factions: McCann spoke vociferously in favor of Ethan’s plan, expressing his opinion that in light of the upcoming merger, a decisive opening blow had to be struck immediately. The coverage of the merger would be live, and with an attack on the physical computers that ran the stock trading, the ever-running ticker was sure to stop. Such a disruption was something that the Company couldn’t explain away by claiming it was executed by a handful of disorganized anarchists. Risky though the attack would be, it was the necessary springboard required to bring the Protectorate movement into the open at last. Four other council members, two men and two women, seemed to agree with McCann.
The second faction was led by Grace, who claimed that an attack on such a prominent Company target, in the middle of a heavily armed hub, was simply too dangerous a move. Besides, she said, the military importance of the target was questionable. If they were going to risk the lives of hundreds or thousands of Protectorate soldiers, she argued, it should be to take out a squad member barracks or a weapons facility, not to participate in a symbolic gesture of defiance.
A lone man, Dr. Le Grande, who I later learned had a Ph.D. in agriculture from Cranton and left when Peak came into fashion, proposed patience. First and foremost, he was concerned about potential innocent casualties that might result from an attack on the Exchange. When Ethan assured him that every measure would be taken to ensure that only armed squad members would be injured in the raid, he still wasn’t convinced.
“We should watch and wait,” he said. “After all, I’m still not convinced that it’s impossible to reform the Company from the inside.”
The rest were convinced. Apparently reform efforts had been made for years, with the result that those who proposed the reforms either disappeared, died mysteriously, or were somehow induced to rethink their position—a change of heart that was usually followed by either a large increase in their credit level or a mysterious case of total amnesia.
Of course, I thought of my father. If only there were a way to get through to him, to make him understand what was happening and put a stop to it. . . . But after my visit to his house, I doubted whether he was in any mental condition to tell right from wrong. And even if I could get him on our side, did he really have the power to effect a change? Or was Jimmy Shaw the Company’s true master? Or Yao? Or Blackwell? Or someone else I’d never even met?
No, Ethan argued. There could be no falling back on strategies that had already failed. At this stage in the conflict, he claimed, no target was more important than the Stock Exchange.
“A symbolic victory is exactly what we need,” he argued. “Our real enemy isn’t the Company, it’s complacency. People need to understand what’s happening and get inspired to take action. The Protectorate Education Initiative is what’s going to change the tide of this war. R almost has it finished. And what better way to set the people up for it than by disrupting the merger ceremony? I’m telling you, if we show the people that the Company isn’t infallible, they’ll come flocking to our banner.”
“But how, Ethan?” Grace nearly shouted. “What’s your plan? I understand the Protectorate Education Initiative and I know it’s important, but this . . . I can’t see how this is anything but a suicide mission.”
For the next four hours, Ethan laid out his plan in incredible detail. He showed 3-D maps of the tunnels beneath N-Hub 2, architectural drawings of the Stock Exchange building, and even provided the names of the squadmen who would be assigned to security that day. If anyone else wondered how he got his information, they didn’t show it, and I vowed to ask him myself after the meeting.
Ethan laid out what sounded to me like a brilliant plan, but the moment he finished, Grace and her faction set about attacking it.
“What if they employ drones?” a barrel-chested, redheaded man asked as he stroked his goatee.
“Won’t happen,” Ethan said. “The Company has never brought out any of its lethal technology in any of the larger hubs. It would terrify people. They won’t do it. It’s bad P.R.”
“What about the escape plan?” a slight, middle-aged woman with long, gray-blond hair asked. “That’s what worries me.”
“Sorry, that’s the one part of the plan that I have to keep confidential,” Ethan said. “As you know, our security has been somewhat compromised lately.”
It was hard not to notice a few of the council members glancing at me.
“I agree with Leon,” Grace said with a shake of her head. “It sounds wonderfully dramatic, but in practice I just can’t see it working. There are too many things that could go wrong. All it would take is a thunderstorm with some gusty winds and the whole second team would be finished.”
“What would you propose instead?” McCann asked, finally getting annoyed.
“I propose we find a target that’s slightly less ludicrous!” Grace shouted.
Ethan broke in to explain why the exit plan for the second team was sound, but he still refused to give away the details of how our soldiers would escape the island of Manhattan. The debate went on.
The whole time I remained uncharacteristically silent, listening to the arguing, reasoning, pleading, and discussing with an odd mix of exhilaration and foreboding. It was certainly an incredible-sounding plan, and if Ethan was able to pull it off, it would be a huge victory for the Protectorate—and a major black eye for the Company. But it would be incredibly dangerous. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would have to take part in it.
Now, at forty minutes after midnight, the final vote is tallied: six in favor of Ethan’s plan, five opposed, with Clair, of course, not voting.
Grace stands, shutting off her IC and shaking her head. “Well, I hope you’re right, Ethan—for all our sakes.”
“One more order of business,” Ethan says, and the council, most of whom were already heading for the door, sigh as one and turn back.
“I have a tremendous number of preparations to make if we’re going to get ready for the mission next Friday,” he begins. “With Clair in the infirmary, I’m going to need some help.”
“What? You want Major Blake from second battalion?” Grace asks.
“Captain Hernandez has an excellent mind for strategy,” McCann suggests.
But Ethan, for the first time all day, looks at me.
“Fields, the B
lackie spy?” Grace growls, incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Ethan! When the troops find out about this they’re going to be calling for a no-confidence vote on your leadership. It’s insane enough that you even let her sit in on this meeting, but I managed to bite my tongue.”
A few of the other council members are nodding and glowering at me. I glower back, even though I have no idea what’s going on.
“I’m the one commanding this operation and I’m the one planning it,” Ethan replies coolly. “If it’s going to succeed, I’m going to need all the help I can get. And Fields is the woman for the job. I propose we immediately bestow on her the rank of first lieutenant, under my command.”
Everyone stares at me like I have six eyes and a hand growing out of my forehead. Fortunately, I have the good sense to keep my mouth shut.
“You didn’t see her fight at the prison raid,” Ethan continues. “I did. Before reinforcements arrived, she stood by my side for ten minutes holding off the enemy. If it had been anyone else, I probably wouldn’t be standing here today. She’s a fighter. And she’s my choice.”
Ethan and Grace glare at one another for a few awkward moments, then Grace finally shrugs. “God, I hope you know what you’re doing,” she says wearily. “All in favor of promoting Private Fields to first lieutenant under General Ethan Greene’s command?”
“Aye,” they all say.
“Nay,” Grace says, but she’s the only one. “The ayes have it. Congratulations, Blackie. Meeting adjourned.”
Without further ceremony, the council files out of the room, except for McCann, who approaches and claps Ethan on the shoulder.
Ethan smiles tiredly. “Well, the hard part is over,” he says with his usual dry humor, “Now all we have to do is execute a precise, highly dangerous raid in a heavily guarded urban area.”