The Last Server

by H. J. Pang

  “You!” Greg’s heart jumped as the Red Pole stepped towards him, flanked by two 49ers. “Tell me if you’ve seen anything!” He was grabbed by the front of his shirt, and pulled upright. Up close, the Red Pole’s breath smelled strongly of marijuana, probably consumed right before his raid. One of his enforcers swung his baton, and Greg jerked as it made contact. A sharp pain seared across his skull.

  “I didn’t see anything,” spluttered Greg, fighting to stay conscious. He was glad he’d left his bag in the shower booth. A quick search by the enforcers would have blown his cover. For now, shaving himself put him in the part of a lowly worker well enough. Part of him was wondering why no one squealed on him, but he was otherwise occupied with the guy holding him.

  “Liar! Surely you had?” yelled the Red Pole. This time, a punch crashed against Greg’s stomach, doubling him over. He gasped, tensing himself to ready the Swiss army knife he had. He wouldn’t have a match against the other armed enforcers, but at least he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  “None of us saw anything, Red Pole,” said a voice. The Red Pole whipped around, and Greg fell to the ground. He was vaguely aware of the enforcers moving away from him, but pain prevented him from doing more than tilt his head up.

  It was the guy with the goggles Greg had seen earlier. Now with his goggles hanging around his neck, he was speaking calmly to the senior triad member, despite being a head shorter than he was. Dressed in work overalls, he had a couple of tools on his belt, which was surprising, given that Greg had seen the other workers returning them. Back in the mines, slaves didn’t get to bring their tools back to their quarters, for fear of a revolt or sabotage.

  “Everyone here knows the importance of security, Red Pole Wan,” said Goggles. “I didn’t see anybody that I didn’t recognise at my post downstairs.”

  “What would you know? You have your eyes on your tools all the time!” snapped the Red Pole.

  But his tone was less hostile than before.

  “As Blue Lantern, I am just a commoner helping the 418 and not a sworn member, but I am also in charge of my brothers’ security,” said Goggles. “And I know the 418 rewards those loyal to the cause. Many of us here aspire to be part of the brotherhood someday, and would never jeopardise that. You have my word that we’ll detain anyone who looks suspicious, and let the enforcers know about it. I swear it.”

  “Swear by the Oaths,” yelled the Red Pole. “The whole damn lot of you.”

  “We swear by the 36 Oaths!” everyone chorused. Greg didn’t manage to catch that in time, but the triad members were no longer looking at him. Red Pole Wan gave a snort, and brushed past Goggles.

  “If you see anything suspicious, report it!” yelled the Red Pole to all who were gathered. “The first one who does it gets promoted to 49er, along with 2000 Dragon dollars!” With a clomp of boots, the triad enforcers left.

  “Get back to your business, everyone!” Goggles called to the crowd. “Let’s get everything back in order, or we’re going to have our meals late.” He went over to Greg. “Come on, back to your feet.”

  Greg allowed himself to be pulled back up, averting his gaze. As he made to move away, Goggles followed close behind.

  “We have to talk.” The tone wasn’t threatening, but it wasn’t one that took no for an answer.

  “I’ll be okay, Blue Lantern. Red Pole Wan didn’t hit me too hard. I’ve got to attend to my duties now anyway.”

  “If you don’t come with me right now, I’m going to blow your cover,” hissed Goggles, and his tone made Greg turn towards him. “These guys might not betray you right now, but give it enough time and they would. If you risk the safety of my commune, I’ll make sure you never make it out alive.”

  Greg clenched a fist. “What do you want?” he demanded. He retrieved his pack from inside the shower booth. He knew Goggles hadn’t saved him out of the goodness of his heart. There wasn’t much community spirit to be had even before The Storm, and needless to say, nobody ever did anything for free these days. It was always something for something, for who knew if someone you met today would be gone tomorrow?

  Goggles nodded approvingly. “Straight and to the point. But not in front of the others. For now, follow me. And put this on.” He passed Greg a pair of welding goggles and a scarf. “If anyone asks, you’re my workshop assistant.”

  Goggles went to his shack and found a stack of metal parts, and passed some of it to Greg. He then walked towards the exit of the commune, his new assistant in tow. There was a bare-chested 49er guard smoking a cigarette outside, armed with nothing more than a revolver and machete. This was unlike the well-equipped guards he had seen earlier, who had rifles and other mil-spec equipment. Goggles rounded the corner to where another door stood. Greg briefly saw a hand-drawn roster with two names on it before Goggles opened it, clanging it shut after him.

  “Put that crap on the workbench over there,” said Goggles before locking the door with a key. Greg dumped the stuff on the table, taking a look around.

  Like many facilities in the post-Storm landscape, almost everything here was makeshift. Several shelves which looked like they had belonged to a shoe store were lined with metal parts of all shapes and sizes. On closer look, it appeared to be parts of machinery, including that for a building’s ventilation system. Larger components, boxes and sheet metal were stacked against the wall. On the wall was an English translation of the 36 Oaths, which looked to be handwritten on a panel that made up a false ceiling. The workbench itself wasn’t an actual workbench per se, but an office desk with several metal clamps bolted onto it. An open FM radio lay on its side, with its screws and a side panel removed. To Greg’s amazement, a DC power supply was attached to the mains supply, with boxes of wires and scavenged electrical components next to it.

  “You have electricity here?” There was little need for him to deny he wasn’t from these parts.

  “Only for the Production Centres and some workshops,” said Goggles, settling into the stool at his workbench. He gestured towards a box that Greg could sit on. “But that’s only from 6am to 6pm, so we have to get anything done electrically between then. Only the restricted areas, or those with special requests, get light 24/7.”

  “Production Centres with electrical infrastructure? That’s better than I expected.”

  Goggles snorted. “I’ll love to talk about the wonders of The Mountain, but I’m sure you haven’t come here as a refugee. So how about we get straight to the point?”

  And so it begins. “You said we need to talk. So what do you have to say for yourself?” demanded Greg.

  Goggles took off his scarf and his namesake goggles. “I saw you when you were following the guys returning their tools to the collection point earlier, but didn’t tell any of the 418 about it. It didn’t take long, however, before the 418 sent their raids. Your very presence almost brought disaster upon my commune. With close to twenty communes just like the one you were in, it’s not uncommon for the 418 to purge one as a warning to the others. As a responsible leader, I should be turning you in, if only to protect my own people.

  “That said,” added Goggles as Greg got up in fury, “you’re the first guy to have broken through the 418’s defences in a year. The last one lasted no more than five minutes, and he was a member of the Old Guard. If anything, their guys have some of the best fighters in what’s left of the world. Given your achievements, I believe we can do business.”

  “With whom do I have the pleasure of working?” sneered Greg. “And why should I be working with a 418?”

  “Because you know we have something to offer each other,” said Goggles. “You have skills in deception and the ways of war, and I know every inch of these buildings. My name is of no concern to you, but you may call me Lantern.”

  “Fine, what do you want, Lantern?” snapped Greg. He remained on his feet.

  “How about you tell me what brought you here first?” challenged Lantern, standing up slowly. “After all, I did save you from th
e Red Pole and his thugs.” Up close, Greg could see his eyes carried a glint which betrayed the courage that came under hard conditions. This was a man who had worked under the 418 for who knew how long, with the threat of punishment and death for any mistakes he or his guys may have made. His eyes were also those of someone who put the safety of his own guys before anyone else, who wouldn’t let a bigger and stronger thug bulldoze his way out of here.

  Greg wavered, memories of long past flooding in. “I’m trying to find Jin.” He slumped back to his seat.

  Lantern tilted his head, eyes creased into a frown. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

  “I’m trying to find my son. He’d been taken here,” choked Greg. “I need to get him back.”

  Lantern let out a breath. “And what makes you think he even passed through this place? Maybe you should start from the beginning.”

  Each day at the mines brought only pain, and a growing sense of desperation that permeated the air like smoke.

  The first few days were some of the worse Greg had known. Most of the slaves, fearing the fate of the gun or machete, had gone like sheep to their tasks. Three days had been enough to send a few others gibbering towards their captors, picks and shovels raised in defiance. The rebellion was over before it began.

  A new batch of slaves had come in just the day before, so Towkay had seen fit to make an example out of some of them. Twenty more slaves were executed, with the entire slave population to bear witness. Since then, no one had dared try to revolt.

  Greg couldn’t be sure how many slaves there actually were. With the confusing mess of tunnels, one could count five on work detail on an ore deposit, only to see them again when they transferred the raw ore to the trucks that led to the surface. And one didn’t exactly have the time or energy to count. If it looked like you were daydreaming, you got struck by a guard.

  There was no way of telling time in the mines; only a lucky few saw daylight on the occasions they pushed the ore-laden trucks to the surface. Greg wasn’t one of them. But a clock he had glimpsed in a guard post on the way to and back from his shift suggested work detail lasted from 5.30am to 7pm, including meals and breaks. Perhaps considered a flight risk, he was put on an excavation work detail deep in the mines. Like many of the women, his wife was tasked to food preparation duties, alongside the transportation of stores and water. The children weren’t spared, either, and assisted the women.

  It was three years later that Lee Ping was assaulted by a Red Pole. Like a true wife of a soldier, she fought for her dignity. But a half-starved woman was no match to a seasoned and desperate fighter. Despite it happening in the crowded food preparation area, no one dared do anything. Greg had heard from one of the female slaves that his daughter Mei had tried to help. She was beaten along with Lee Ping and taken away. Greg couldn’t have done anything even if he had been there; it had happened in a different sector during work duty. He later heard that Mei had died from a concussion, and Lee Ping was given an off-the-books execution for resisting. Greg wanted revenge, anything to show that not all of them were sheep. But he still had his last kid to think about.

  Jin always asked when they were going back to the kampung. Each time, Greg could only tell him it wasn’t time yet, and convince him they were just here for a little while more. Eventually, Jin stopped asking.

  When Jin was taken from him in the dead of night, at the age of 12, Greg knew his time in the mines was over. He had to find his son.

  Lantern lit a cigarette. “I think I know where your son may be,” he said.

  Greg stood up and quickly wiped his face on a sleeve. “Where?” he whispered.

  “Before you set about doing anything, you have to understand the situation here,” said Lantern, holding his hands up. “So how about you sit down and listen to me first?” His face was impassive.

  Lantern blew out a cloud of smoke, not bothering to face away from Greg. It gave off an acrid, bitter smoke, and smelled nothing like the pre-Storm stuff. “Where were you originally from?” he asked. “I’m guessing you were a slave.”

  Greg didn’t see how it would hurt to tell him. “The mines of Teluk Ramunia.” Lantern raised an eyebrow. “It’s under the purview of the 418 Minelords in East Johor.”

  “I had heard of the mines that feed the war effort,” mused Lantern. “But I’ve never been there. Me, I’ve been here ever since the world went to shit. Yeah, hard to believe, right?” He chuckled as Greg stared. “I was a maintenance technician for the A*STAR labs here at Fusionopolis and I had figured that with most of the survivors running across the Causeway, there would be plenty of work for guys like me. I wasn’t entirely wrong; some of the more dedicated scientists were close to breakthroughs in research and wanted to see it through. Did you know that of all the buildings in Singapore, it is Fusionopolis that best survived? Some of the scientists say the large amounts of electromagnetic waves the machines here give off counteracted the effects of The Storm. It’s all IT experimentation here, so any number of wireless signals could have caused it. Even the nearby buildings of Biopolis weren’t completely spared.

  “Anyway, it didn’t take long for some of the criminally inclined survivors to band together and see this building as ripe pickings,” Lantern continued. “They eventually became a big part of the 418 as we now know it. Their Dragon Head—that’s the 418 chief—saw the importance of using the technology here to rebuild the future. Much of the computer data was corrupted during The Storm, and he needed people to work on recovering what they could. Many of the scientists and researchers came under their service. Those who were deemed useless …” He shrugged.

  “Will you get to the point already?”

  “Tsk, I’m coming to that. So anyway, the 418 knows all these equipment needs maintaining. A few of the technicians, including yours truly, are in charge of all that. Not just machinery, but ventilation, floor and electrical repairs. That means I have access to everywhere in the building. This includes the labs.”

  Greg sat up straighter.

  “The labs are split between Fusionopolis and what’s left of Biopolis,” said Lantern. “Aside from those dedicated to IT operation, there are also small-scale assembly lines on the first and second floors. Scavenger crews bring back anything in the city that could be put to use. Now, I have seen kids in the assembly lines. Some of them are from my own commune, and I’ll recognise any of them.

  “But only a day ago, I saw a few unfamiliar faces in one of the labs. They had been locked in cages.”

  “Cages?” whispered Greg.

  “That’s right,” affirmed Lantern. “One of the other maintenance guys confirmed he saw them wired up to some measuring equipment in the IT lab. The funny thing is that it’s normally the guys in Biotech that handles living subjects. Now, one of these kids could be yours. I can take you there.”

  “What’s in it for you?” asked Greg. This was the moment of truth. The price one had to pay for a service rendered. Somehow, Greg didn’t think it would be any of the currency they used in these parts. But he couldn’t give up on his son, not when he had a fresh lead.

  Lantern stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of his workbench. For a long while, he said nothing. When he spoke, Greg could see a certain glee in his eyes.

  “I want your gun,” said Lantern. “I know you have one in your waistband.”

  “What do you want it for?” asked Greg, although he already knew. There was only one reason why someone would want a gun rather than a knife. It kills easily and quickly. Weak men became powerful fighters the moment they wielded them. It was the reason why guns changed warfare since they were invented.

  Lantern’s answer surprised him. “I want to make arms for my commune,” he said. “When the time comes, the 418 will get what they deserve. We will take over the labs, and make sure no one suffers under the triads anymore.”

  “You’ll be slaughtered. These aren’t handgun-wielding lunatics you’re talking about,” said Greg. “This is a fully-equipped arm
y, complete with rifles and GPMGs. I’ve seen them. Even in the off-chance that your makeshift weapons work, your guys are going to be outgunned. It’ll be a bloodbath that would have no hope of succeeding. I’m not going to put anyone else at risk.”

  “That’s not your concern. And that’s my price.”

  Greg huffed. “Can’t you smuggle out some rifles from the armskote or something? You did say that you have access to anywhere.”

  “If one of the 49ers at the armskote so much as discover a single magazine out of place, they’re going to perform a building-wide search,” explained Lantern. “Two years back, one of the knives in a cookhouse went missing. The 418 raided all the communes just to find it. And despite the fact that they didn’t, the Incense Master had ten guys executed, and they weren’t even on cookhouse detail. So believe me when I tell you that I’d already thought that over. I won’t be able to help you unless you give me what I want. That’s a promise.”

  Greg didn’t know when he would get another gun, if ever. The wasteland was a very dangerous place, and there were few things more valuable than a working gun.

  “Fine,” Greg finally said, “but you’ll get it only when we reach the lab.”

  “Deal,” said Lantern. He got up, consulting a clock on the wall. “We should go after midnight. That’s when there’re the least guards about. I suggest you get some sleep. It must have been a long journey for you to come here.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” replied Greg. Weakness was never respected in the wasteland.

  “I’ll get you some stew. Best you don’t show your face at the communal fire. The guys are a close-knit group, and we don’t know who’ll sell you out for a dragon dollar. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’ll get you half a full meal. You can sleep here till the time comes.” Lantern pulled a section of plywood down to the floor. From the smell, Greg could tell it had been used for the very same purpose many times before. “If you need a piss, there’s a bucket in the corner.”