A Tale Of Doings

by Philip Quense

  Grandpa Greg hit a button on the control panel, and a piercing whistle sounded in Arc’s home unit. She cringed and held her ears. She fell to her knees, trying to use her hands to block out the damaging noise. After a long laugh, Grandpa Greg released his sweaty palm from the control panel, and the sound stopped. Confusion and anger showed on Arcs face. She looked around for an enemy, but only her reflection stared back at her. Then the woman did something odd. As quickly as the rage filled her features, it was gone, and her face regained composure. Instead of screaming, crying, or yelling, she sat cross-legged and stared out at the unseen assailant beyond her unit wall. She hummed softly to herself. Her emotions settled into a calm, like stormy clouds after a fierce tempest that settle when the sun begins to break through.

  The moment of control was lost. Smirking, the belly fat rumbled, “You want her. You want her to like you, don’t you, boy? You’re soft. You can’t win them over.” He sneered at the captives and made a suggestive gesture, pumping his hands beside his hips, as he continued, “You break them and use them. You never, never, never stare into the eyes of someone you’re using, or they will get inside your soul and destroy you.” His voice was a warning, threatening rasp.

  “Soul.” An outdated word. A concept only spoken of in Medieval World. But Grandpa Greg was older than David.

  Grandpa Greg continued with a hiss, “If you give them an inch, just a single bit of ground to stand on, then those slaves will exploit a weakness called human compassion, which might destroy your resolve and undermine any dreams you’ve ever had of succeeding, let alone buying yourself and finding happiness. You can take them or you can sell them or you can break them, but you can never be like them, boy.”

  In response, David emitted a low growl; the provoker’s words were lighting a fire of anger inside of him. Shame, embarrassment, and fury boiled in his spirit like a pot of molten lava in a malleable vessel about to rupture. He hated being scolded. This man thought David was worthless.

  David closed his eyes and had a flashback of himself as a child passing a note to a female classmate in the Thrive School. The development trainer had caught him in the act. It was as if the teacher had known he would commit the act beforehand and had been watching for the transgression. David had been corrected and shamed in front of the class. Punishment was not something he enjoyed. He remembered the guilt and the pain he had been subjected to. That sense of childish helplessness returned again as he was scolded by Grandpa Greg.

  Grandpa Greg touched the projector screen, and the bell went off in the captive’s cell again. “You can take her or you can sell her or you can break her, but you can never have her, boy.”

  David winced and shook his head, suppressing the flashback that haunted his emotions. But another flashback came to him. It was from a couple of years ago, when Uriah had publicly mocked David about Bathsheba. His containment cell neighbors had laughed at him for several quarters. It had been a horrible week. Shame had made him commit an error in a work calculation, causing him to create a program with a tiny flaw. The flaw had crashed two communication chat room servers. Customers had lost communication on over five hundred chats for about one minute. David had been demoted, chastised, and sent to his Mind Doc for an official health and aptitude evaluation. All had returned to normal after a couple of weeks, but the failure at work had been a mark against him. It had felt horrible to be scolded like a common criminal. The embarrassment filled David once more. He turned red in the face.

  All of this happened in a split second. Grandpa Greg was trying to break David. David needed to stop the downward spiral of self-defeat. He needed power to respond to this situation. David summoned his composure, trying to remember the self-orienting steps from the Mindmonks. Climb, climb, climb on. For the good of the stock and my freedom, I am strong enough to climb on from my weakness. He repeated the mantra in in his mind one more time. Power returned to his thoughts. David remembered his purpose. “I am the leader.” He rubbed his brand, sending more power into his body and reminding him of his priorities. I will grind this disobedient manager into the ground, he promised himself, no matter how impossible that would be.

  He recalled the CEO’s words of blessing. I need to act for the good of the team, he thought. His brand supported this more productive idea even more than the first idea. Lead this team, and don’t fight with them, even if you don’t like them.

  “Stop, Grandpa Greg. That’s an order.” David was younger and stronger; he stepped forward. The two stood eye to eye. David let his muscles tighten and ripple as he intimidated the older man. “Remember the last time you were given the simple task of making profit for the company? You raped a Lave Labs subject when you ran the team. It’s all in the report.”

  Taken aback by the fierceness of David’s stance, Grandpa Greg whined, “I didn’t rape anyone. ‘Rape’ is a dirty word used only for horrible criminals that violate a free person sexually. She was neither free nor a human-doing, so it’s not rape—or even molestation, for that matter.” Grandpa Greg backed up nevertheless. “I used her for the good of the experiment.”

  Flicking his hand back and forth over the report in the projection, David displayed a chart with statistical data that showed how much of a financial mess Grandpa Greg had made of his last project. That shut him up.

  On a roll, David said, “And for you two.” David displayed a calculation simulator on his projection screen. Data from past projects rolled around the screen as proof of their combined failed legacy. “Here is the reason for following my plan instead of your past plans. We will do this differently, because your methods failed. We at Nnect believe in success and not following failure. Think what you might about me, but I aim to succeed.”

  The marginal numbers, in blood red, showed the horrible failures from all the other Lave Labs projects. He saw the other managers’ looks of contempt turn to hesitant compliance. But David wanted to secure his position even further. He said, “CEO Saul in his wisdom did not give me this authority over you because I did so well in PPRE. He gave me this responsibility because even though you’re all so successful in other projects, you’ve all cost Nnect freedoms every time you failed at managing Lave Labs. New blood means new ideas. New creative options. I am creative potential unleashed. We as a team shall be creators of profit. Captains of industry.”

  With finality, David waved the report into a shared bin that popped up on each core workstation. “We’ll proceed as I command. We’ll not ruin this batch of subjects. We’ll find a more creative solution, as CEO Saul has stipulated. Each of you, including me, has been assigned a set of five slaves. I’ve sorted them according to your talents, giving you some close to your age and two kids each.” Each manager had their list with the associated faces displayed on their computers. “I’ll take Gimp, Arc, Mop, Brac, and Freckles. Crystal will have the late-twenties batch, including Muscles. Slayer will have the objects in their thirties, and Grandpa Greg will get those subjects older than that. I’ve assigned the appropriate people to your files with a list of items we want to know.” He paused, letting each member scroll through their subjects.

  “Of course you all get the ones with life still in them.” Grandpa Greg was clearly upset. “Granny is going to croak. That guy in home unit nineteen can hardly make it to the bathroom.”

  “Each according to their talents,” Slayer said, enjoying tormenting the other manager.

  “When much is proven, much more will be given,” Cristal quipped, also delighting in Grandpa Greg’s discomfort.

  “I want to know their stories!” David demanded.

  The three nodded and continued thumbing through their list of slaves. Their brains were churning up ideas.

  “I want to know who they are, why they were where they were, how their society runs, who is in charge, what they believe in. Everything about them. Their dreams and ambitions and careers. The motivation behind these people that call themselves human beings. The protection clause is in place temporarily. Two days of s
cenario observation and two days of interrogation and brainstorming.”

  Manda said in her informative manner, “We’ll compile the results and then proceed with coming up with a proposition plan. Your assistance will help with your data input.”

  David nodded to the pretty Manda, once again grateful for her levelheaded support. “Am I clear?” David felt alive with power.

  The other scientists in the next room looked over as David stood and slammed his clenched fist down on his workstation. It must’ve been unusual to see anyone tell the legendary experts how things would be done. The three groaned and glared but complied reluctantly. And so Project Slave began. Despite their hesitation to follow orders, these three knew how to work hard. They began shouting orders to their Lave Labs assistants and scientist teams.

  “That was something else.” Manda said as she walked with David down to their slave cells.

  Chapter 21

  Episode 8: The Shiftings

  The temperature was mild but humid, very humid, making for a miserable, sticky day. Death added a distinct smell to the moment of misery. Phel’s forehead and armpits were damp. He slapped away a persistent mosquito. The grisly combination of sweat and dirt stained the sleeve of his tunic. He lifted the shovel’s splintered handle, and dirt showered over the newly dug grave, one in a row of ten fresh graves lined up in front of him.

  “It is done; Cled is put to rest,” he said in a calm voice to Jillian after ambling to the fortified manor.

  “Cled?” A golden eyebrow raised in question.

  “The farmer I lived with.” He started to explain before simply saying, “The peasants and warriors from the attack are put to rest.” He tried to hide his anger and disappointment at his friend’s death. In his old life, he would have performed a prayer and farewell ceremony to honor the man. No longer. Faith in the Creator and loyalty to the Trawlands were buried by his changing mind, like the body of Cledwyn by the dirt.

  “Drane would’ve never put up with this! Meldz left the village vulnerable.” Jillian pounded a bone dagger handle onto the wooden table in the lounging room of the manor.

  “You are not the only angry person in town.” Everyone left alive in Waver Town was frustrated. “The Sonz feel betrayed by their realm’s knights, who butchered or injured many—both Moonz and Sonz.”

  “Phel, this is all Meldz’s fault for ordering Drane to withdraw with our force.” Jillian was now in charge of Waver Town. “Can you blame Aslar for sending his troops to attack when we were defenseless? That is his job after all.”

  “How did Sir Aslar know there was only skeleton crew of warriors left to guard the village?” Phel asked; the itch of the question had been haunting him all day.

  The village had been exposed. Meldz had stripped its defenses when they should’ve been reinforced. “I don’t know. Perhaps there is a traitor.” Jillian looked as exhausted as he felt.

  “On whose side?” Every inch of him ached. Had he ever been this weary?

  “I sent letters to Drane and Lord Meldz, informing them of the attack.” Before he could ask it, she said, “No I didn’t send Felina or Jotchen.” The last two remaining warriors. “Hopefully the fetcher’s boy can ride the mare we put him on.”

  “Hopefully Sir Aswar’s troops don’t intercept him.”

  “Or the foul beasts that your peasants say lurk in the Ngela Haunted Forest don’t kill him first.”

  “Drane will be back soon with supplies and the troops.” Phel hoped he sounded more encouraging than he felt. His mind was divided about the return of Drane or Meldz and the other warriors. He was enjoying the alone time with Jillian, which was only possible with Drane gone, but Drane was a key element of the village’s defenses. Drane had also raised Phel out of his miserable situation in the village. He had given him a sword and his dignity back.

  “The darkness knows what sort of village Drane may come back to. We only have fifty Moonz people, mostly craftsmen and woman. The peasants of Waver Village might overthrow us even if Aslar’s troops don’t return.”

  Suddenly a bell rang. The chime echoed through the manor halls and reverberated in the stone rooms. Thunderous hooves pounded on the pavement stones. The glasses and mead jar rattled on the wooden table by the window.

  “For the glory of battle,” both Phel and Jillian intoned wearily. They drew forth their swords and rushed to the wide entrance.

  “Sir Aslar’s men have returned.” Assuming the worst, Phel yelled up the stairs to where Felina was sleeping; they had been taking turns.

  “Look, it’s Drane! Thank the moon,” Jillian declared, her scarlet blouse rustling under her leather jerkin. She stood tall and fierce on the porch, sword in her hand. She was correct. Twenty horses rode into the square. Drane, his grisly beard knotted, dismounted before her, the dirt of the road covering him with grime.

  “My heart, I saw the graves. What’s taken place?” Droplets of saliva caught on the bushy beard. He panted heavily after the long ride. The war band of the Moonz beat their leather shields with their weapons and clamored for revenge.

  “Death to the enemy of the night! Death to the scourge of the land!”

  “We’ve been betrayed and attacked,” Jillian said simply, since there was no sugarcoating her feelings. Then she shocked Phel by saying, “The Sonz would have taken over the village had it not been for your pet dog, Phel.” Respect and gratitude filled her words. Phel and Drane both looked at her like she was crazy.

  “Did you beat her on the head, Felina?” Drane asked Felina, who stalked sleepily out onto the porch behind them, still pulling on pants and cinching a shirt under her sword belt.

  Phel raised his head a bit higher. “For the glory of the battle.”

  Drane pounded him on the back as he joined them. “I knew you had some grit in you! Well done.”

  Jillian leaned forward and conferred quietly with Drane. They talked this way for several minutes in hushed tones. Phel could not hear what they said over the chanting of the warriors, who were now in a savage mood.

  Drane turned to Phel and said, “You have done well. I thank you sincerely for your actions.” Phel’s chest swelled with pride. The bear of a man strode into the midst of the circling horses of the war band. He raised a steel fist high. The troops pounded their weapons together, rode in a ring, and watched their leader.

  “Follow him, Phel.” Jillian pushed Phel forward. The stomping horses nearly ran over him as he ducked and weaved trying to get to the center of the moving ring. Twice he was kicked by a rider’s foot and once nearly trampled by a fierce mare. Breathlessly, he found himself standing next to Drane. The warrior pushed Phel onto his knees and drew forth Phel’s weapon.

  “By the light of the moon and the power of King Eddard, I declare Phel, son of the carpenter of Castle Bend of the Land of Alexoria, to be a warrior of the Moonz.” Drane ran the blade over Phel’s palm, causing emerald blood to ooze forth. The pain made the warrior grimace, but he did not cry out. The Moonz invaders were rarely this formal. This was a sacred ritual, a rebirth. Drane grabbed Phel’s hand and slapped it against the kneeling man’s face. He then handed Phel the sword. The palm print of blood dripped; the war band began to chant.

  Through the pounding of the hoofs Phel heard some of the words of the song: “Dancing in the sky, reflecting back the darkness, may the grace of my death guide me to your halls. Forever a warrior, forever a weapon, forged by the light of the moon.”

  As the chant increased in complexity, Phel lost the meaning of the words. He closed his eyes, feeling his warm blood dripping, and let the carnal moment sweep his spirit up with it. “Rise, my sword brother. May you always pour yourself out for the cause of the moon, and may your ale froth over in fierce company.” Phel had become a warrior of the Moonz.

  The ring of horses suddenly opened up. A lone man, a lord from his garb, entered the ring on a majestic sunburnt steed wearing a helmet of the deepest night with diamonds glittering in the shape of a moon. The war band dismounted, incl
uding Sir Drane, and knelt on the stones before this lord.

  “Protect me now.” The words slipped out of Phel’s mouth. Phel’s face dripped with the blood, and his palm itched from the cut. He recognized the lord, and he bowed his head before the man who was the leader of the invasion force, Lord Meldz himself.

  “What transpires here, Dranald?”

  “The village has been attacked, our warriors and villagers slain, and this man I have added to our host for his spirited defense of the village.”

  “I alone weigh the hearts and determine who is worthy of our band, Sir Dranald. You do not have the power to raise a Sonz dog out of the dust to manhood. Out of respect for your past glory, I will allow him to live and serve our cause here, but because you offend me with your sentimentality, you’ll be tested. You’ve grown soft and comfortable in your heightened position in Waver Town.”

  “Lord…”

  “Silence in my presence. I speak with the tongue of King Eddard.” The majestic lord glared. A guard of ten warriors, bristling with weaponry, followed behind him. They were the Ghost Knights, elite special forces known for their brutality and loyalty. Drane had been a Ghost Knight for a short while. Lord Meldz continued, “Dranald, I have an assignment for you. I’m temporarily removing the mantle of Waver Town leadership from you. Jillian, take command.”

  Drane stood, his boots stomping. “Wherever the invasion is the fiercest, I shall go.” His muscles bulged on his neck.

  “You shall. You shall. I have a secret mission for you.” Lord Meldz handed him a sealed parchment. “Prove yourself.”

  “For the glory of the moon.”

  The lord rode off, followed by his warrior retinue.

  Drane left the next day with four warriors on the secret mission. He spoke little to Phel—a brief word of farewell as he murmured instructions regarding the stewardship of the house. Phel watched him take leave of Jillian by kissing her fiercely, mount his black stallion, salute his war band, and ride into the sunset, south, in the direction of Marketown and Mastan along the coast.