by T. K. Malone
“Perilous?”
Byron nodded, placing his knife and fork to one side. “Getting thrust into the limelight, emerging from the rabble, is a dangerous thing to do in this particular environment. Remember: he has a quadrant that Kirk rules, a military area which will be filled one day—another commander, more conflict. All that points to trouble. Josiah Charm is expecting trouble. Your problem, Connor,” and Byron wagged his finger in Connor’s face, “is that you can’t duck the trouble. You were selected to be in the limelight.”
“So,” Connor said, leaning away, “I’ll just do my job and that’ll be that.”
Byron chuckled. “Assuming your brother’s dead, he just rolled in his grave—if a vaporised body can roll, that is. No, Connor, you will not be able to play your part from the back of the stage. For a start, people will come to you with their concerns, probably through Kenny Holmes.”
“Why?”
“Because Charm has maneuvered you into that position. Think of yourself as his spokesman. If bad news incites unrest, what would be the easiest thing to do? Have the king abdicate, or kill the herald? In using you as the face of The Free World, Charm has secreted himself into the background. In essence, he’s the puppetmaster and you’re dancing to his tune.”
“So, how am I supposed to keep him honest?” Connor was beginning to feel like a condemned man. If everything Byron had said was true, then he was likely doomed and more than likely going to end up being interviewed by the psychotic Kirk. He shivered at the thought.
“You’re not quite getting it, are you? Don’t you see: every coin has two sides? The fact that Charm is relying on you to play a part gives you a degree of power over him. If you want my advice—I know you’ve never asked for it, so I wouldn’t mind if you ignore what I’m about to say—but if I were you, I’d hurry up and make myself bloody indispensable.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Toe the line, Connor. Toe it, own it, tug on it, pull it for all you’re worth, else you’ll end up rotting in Kirk’s quadrant—or worse.” Byron looked up. “Well, if it isn’t the gorgeous Molly Hunter,” and Connor followed his gaze to see her coming toward their table.
She was dressed in pale green cotton scrubs, her blond hair drawn into a matching bandanna. Something about her had changed, though. Maybe, Connor thought, it was her mood. Molly Hunter appeared almost happy. She beamed as she dumped her tray on the table and slumped into the chair next to Byron.
“I cannot tell you,” she said, “how much better it is with some decent music. Twelve-hour shifts, that’s what we’ve worked out—twelve hours gets us optimum production—but, man, it’s a slog.” She took a long gulp of her drink, smacked her lips and settled back. “So, you got it together in the end?” She looked straight over at Connor.
“Got it together?”
“Yeah, you and Kenny. Man, I nearly pissed my pants when his hairy head popped up on the screens. And Max—the bloke I share a shift with—he couldn’t stop laughing. I mean Kenny, what with his bandages wrapped around his head and his arm in a sling, telling us the world’s gone to shit.” She started laughing, and a smile crept across Connor’s face. “Classic, that’s what it was.”
“You see, Connor,” said Byron, “you’ve already moved one step out of the firing line, Mr. Holmes now firmly in your place. Quite the manipulator yourself, eh?”
“But that—”
“Of course it wasn’t. So, Molly, when are you going to show me around these micro farms that’re taking up all your time?”
“Stop by when you want. That is, if you’re not too busy.”
“Busy? Me? No. I am tasked with transcribing works which Josiah thinks will be of use. He also has me drafting a loose constitution, should we ever get out of this mess.”
“But,” Connor said, “I thought Oster Prime was still in charge?”
Byron sighed and ran his fingers through what long, grey hair still had the nerve to grow from his sparse dome. “Have you not been listening? Oster Prime cannot possibly last. He’s the front man; he’s you; he’ll be toppled in weeks if he’s not already swinging from a gibbet in some underground shelter near what’s left of the capital. Didn’t your brother tell you? Oster Prime may have looked like the leader of The Free World, but he was a mere pretender to a throne which has long been as impotent as it is merely decorative. ‘Symbolic’, that’s the word I’m looking for.”
“But didn’t he press the button?” What Connor really wanted to say was “Didn’t he have the stones?”. Hadn’t that been what Zac had wanted, what Billy Flynn had wanted, to know their leader had the guts.
“Prime? Press the button? No, he wasn’t powerful enough to make that choice.”
Connor looked at Molly for help, but she just shrugged and tucked into her food. He tried to think back to the many conversations he’d had with his brother, to the debates which had raged over the counter of his bar, but never once—not that Connor could recall—had Zac ever laid the blame at the feet of anyone but Oster Prime.
“So, if not Prime, then who?”
Byron Tuttle laughed, a deep throaty laugh which sounded like it had been trapped within him for an age. “I have a feeling that whoever’s been running the show will have little choice but to reveal themselves before this current hand is played. Government, Connor, has long been infused in this land of ours like the very soil itself. It was a fungus whose tendrils crept into every inch of your life, its spores drawn in with your every breath. They won’t let a mere apocalypse upset that. To understand, you must think…no, imagine; imagine our country to be a shine addict and the government the drug. The addict seeks the drug to cure all his ills, and the drug duly appears to oblige. It creates a false sense of wonder, of joy, which can only be sustained with more of the same. Before the addict knows it, there’s no way other than the drug itself, and though he knows it’s killing him, it’s too late. The drug has ravaged his body to such an extent that all hope is gone without another fix. You must choose a time to wean yourself off the shine, Connor.” He smiled. “But for now, we must do what we must do.”
“And what’s that?”
Byron smiled at Molly, then at Connor. “Survive and learn, my dear comrades; survive and learn.”
Connor made to say something, but Molly’s expression caught his attention. She was looking at Tuttle, but not in any casual way. It was like adoration, worship almost, but not quite. Perhaps it was awe, he decided, as though she wholeheartedly agreed with everything Byron had said, agreed with fervor and a passion. And then it was gone, in no more than a blink, and her gaze went back to her plate for a moment, before lifting, composed, to Connor.
“Do you want to see the micro farm?”
“Micro farm?”
“Where I work? Byron wants to have a snoop; you?”
Byron Tuttle reared a little, his wiry frame stiffening. “I think Connor has enough on his plate. What would interest me, Connor, if I were in your position, would be to test our fearless leader.”
“Test him?” and Connor now wondered exactly where this conversation was going, for it had gained an edge of conspiracy, almost as though he was being drawn into something, ever so carefully.
“Ask him if you can go outside—to see the army. What was the commander’s name? Croft; that was it, Commander Croft. Now, if the news bulletin that halfwit of a sidekick of yours so eloquently read out is as bleak as it portrays, then surely a little confirmation would do us all good. News from the outside—news we can all trust. Tell me, Connor, who else could ask Charm that question, and with such an unassailable excuse?”
“So, you just want me to go to Charm and say: ‘Alright if I pop outside for a minute and see if you’re lying or not?’”
Byron nodded. “That’s about the sum of it. Like I’ve said all along, you’ve got to keep Charm honest.”
Connor thought on it. While he didn’t relish the idea of going outside, leaving the protection of the subterranean compound, he did see the
logic. In his mind’s eye he saw the huge Hell’s Gates chopped into a mountainside, a road leading up to it. He saw a vast camp spread out in a D-shape, guns, great big guns, all pointing out. He also saw watchtowers, razor wire and a fortified perimeter surrounding the camp. He imagined meeting Croft in his tented HQ, and being given a tour of the defensive positions. All in all, he could see little harm in it, just as long as Croft was there and there wasn’t just hordes of ravenous zombies pressing their fetid ranks against the stone, waiting—just waiting for a DJ to pop out of the concealed entrance.
“There’s a problem with that,” Connor finally said. “Kenny’s the only one who’s good with a camera, and he’s the one comfortable in front of it. If I clam up in a studio, then what the fuck would I be like in a field situation?”
“But you’d do it?” Byron pressed.
“Go out there? Yes—”
“No, you fool, ask Charm. He won’t let you out, of course, not in a million years.”
“Why not?”
Byron rolled his eyes. “Because there probably isn’t an army out there, maybe?”
“Keep him honest,” Connor said.
“Indeed.”
“I could do it,” said Molly.
“Do what?”
“The report. I’ve been in front of a camera before—a few times, actually. Podcasts, networked lectures, conference calls—that sort of thing. We scientists actually conferred that way on a worldwide basis. I’ve often said if it were left up to us, there wouldn’t be conflict in the world.”
“Or the tools to make it so devastating,” Byron pointed out.
“You’d do it?” Connor asked.
“In a second,” Molly enthused.
“Do what?” said Kenny Holmes. Connor looked up, startled. He hadn’t even noticed the big man looming above them. “And why didn’t you wake me?” at which Kenny dumped himself down in the last spare seat at the table.
The conversation soon degenerated into talk of his unfortunate journey to the compound. Molly, spurred on by Byron, made him retell the whole story. Connor sat there, just listening, but thoughts of his impending meeting with Charm played on his mind. He eventually got up, made his excuses and went off in search of the doctor’s offices. Before he knew it, he was in front of the daunting man.
“Was this Tuttle’s idea?” Charm asked, looking up from his desk.
Connor felt very uncomfortable and was now wondering how he’d been coerced into approaching Charm in the first place. He also wondered about Byron Tuttle; had the man first planted the seed of doubt in him, then watered it, watched it bloom, and finally walked away with a satisfied smile on his face. Had he manipulated Connor in exactly the same way he claimed Charm would do?
“I, er…”
“I see.” Charm tutted and set his pen to one side. He closed the book in which he’d been writing and set it aside. “I’m with Tuttle on a lot of things, Connor. Not least the use of pen and paper. Both been proved right on that point, eh? Where’s all your fancy server farms and their clouds now, eh? I’ll tell you, Connor, EMP’ed to extinction, that’s where. I’ll bet you every credit you ever had that not one of the stupid bastards out there thought about disconnecting them from the grid before they decided to kill the world. Pen and paper, Connor, pen and paper—and fuses. Next time they should remember to take the fuses out,” and Charm laughed, a kind of mad, tyrannical laugh to Connor’s mind.
“Do you think it’s a good idea, though?” Connor asked, trying to draw Charm’s bluff, get the rejection out of the way and be on his own way.
“What? To go outside? Absolute madness. How could I possibly think it’s a good idea? Are you familiar with the term ‘Cannon fodder’?”
“I, er…”
Charm waved away his feeble attempt at an answer. “If you don’t know, just say. Cannon fodder, Connor, means, as the name suggests, a valueless life. It’s a life that can be tossed away without affecting the overall purpose. Now, I had a few of Kirk’s men down for going through the little door to the outside. You know why? Well, I’ll tell you. Because he’s got about sixty; if he lost a few it wouldn’t make much difference in the scheme of things.”
“So, you’re saying…” Connor said, grasping the gist of Charm’s words. “You’re saying that my life isn’t worthless? That it’s worth more than someone else’s?”
Charm stared at Connor for a good while, then picked up a pack of cigarettes from his desk, lit one and looked up at the ceiling, as if seeking some form of intervention. “Tuttle,” he eventually said. “You’ve been speaking to him far too much. The man’s nothing more than a paper revolutionary. The facts we’ve furnished you are the facts of the matter, Mr. Clay. They need no testing and no verification. News is news and facts are facts, whatever Byron Tuttle says.”
“So, I can’t go. He said you’d say ‘no’.”
“Who? Tuttle? Well, he’s wrong.”
“So I can go?”
Shaking his head, Charm tapped on his desk. “Far too dangerous. Far too dangerous. I haven’t even been able to contact Commander Croft to see what’s going on. Can’t have you bowling out there with your cameras and questions. Man’s got a job to do.” He threw the pack of cigarettes at Connor. “Yes,” he then said.
“Yes?” Connor sought to confirm, taking out a smoke and lighting it.
“Yes, you can go, as long as I judge you mentally fit. If not, then no, but if yes, then you can go, and I’ll even throw in a microbiologist for company.” He smiled. “Everywhere, Connor; my cameras are everywhere. But here—here we are on our own. Here you can tell me your darkest secrets and no one will ever know. Cup of tea?”
“Tea?”
Charm shrugged. “Coffee then,” and he got up. Though his office wasn’t huge, it was much bigger than Connor’s studio and had a kitchenette to one side. Charm made the coffees then asked, “Would you indulge me?”
Connor gave him a blank look.
“The couch,” and Charm pointed to what looked like a cross between a couch and a bed in the opposite corner of the room. “Would you mind lying on it? Much more professional.”
Bemused, Connor got up and went over to the couch, first sitting on it then hesitantly lying down. Charm sat by his side, in a chair by a table, both positioned at the head of the couch. “I am…” he said, placing the coffees down. “No, not ‘I am’. Connor, when people ask me what kind of doctor I am, I almost always say, ‘Not that type’. People always assume if you’re a doctor you spend all day cutting and chopping up bodies, holding up pulsing hearts and weighing dripping livers on scales of silver. But no; meddler of the mind, that’s me. My forte. I am a subtler surgeon, but a surgeon nonetheless, and one who’s got a mind to keep you on track. Do you know why I switched off…well, blocked everyone’s internal AI?”
“No,” Connor said, but wondered if that could really be done?
“You call her Sable, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Never truly been a fan of AIs implanted in the mind. I suppose rudimentary ones work fine for most people; tell them when to get up, when to go to work, but why? Why would you want to be a slave to something that was made to be your slave? Has life become immeasurably easier with them? Or are people just lesser versions of what they used to be because of them. Now, yours, I’ll grant you, yours is something special. Tell me when you had her implanted.”
“I can’t.”
“Oh, but you can. Are you remembering anything, Connor, anything new?”
“Not since the vagrant.”
“Lester—he had a name, and it was Lester.”
“Not since Lester,” Connor muttered, his eyes growing heavy.
“Did you have Sable in your mind before you met Lester?”
“No…no…I don’t think so.”
“And after?”
“Hospital, she was there in the hospital. You were there.” Connor could see Charm now. Sitting. He was sitting in a white corner, in a room’s stark w
hite corner—a hospital room. He was there, looking straight at Connor. It was as clear as day.
“Indeed I was,” Charm admitted. “I was looking after my patient. So, now you know you did know me before we supposedly met in the car. Why do you think Sable blanked that out? Why do you think she’s supressed some of your memories? Are you looking in the right place, Connor?”
“What?”
“Your chat with Tuttle. Was the focus of it not me? Can we trust Charm? Tell me, saving your life—not once but twice—is that not enough to gain some measure of your trust? And if I do prevent you from going outside, is that not a man merely protecting his investment?”
Connor’s head felt like it was going to burst. Questions: first Tuttle and then Charm; both firing questions at him, one after the other. How was he supposed to know the best course? He wanted to scream, to cry, to hold his head and pull out his hair as his anguish overflowed. “I don’t know,” he eventually cried.
Charm’s hand reached out, stroking Connor’s brow, settling him. “No,” he whispered, “no, no you don’t, and you don’t need to worry about it, either. You and me, Connor, together, just you and me; we can steer this ship to port. Maybe it’s my fault: this measure of distrust. Maybe I should have been honest with you—one hundred percent—right from the beginning. Things are not always what they seem. All is not well outside.”
“How?”
“Man covets; that’s always been his problem. What we have here is a vast vat of knowledge. What we have here is the culmination of all the learned knowledge needed to recreate society as it was before. No…” and Charm was now stroking Connor’s head. “No, not as before but a much better one. We have the farmers, the engineers, the scientists, the craftsmen—such as there were—and with them we have the ability to emerge from the flames of our own destruction.”
“Phoenix,” Connor muttered.
“Phoenix indeed. And we have a DJ. What more do we need?” and Charm sniggered. “What part for him, eh?”
Although it appeared to be a source of amusement for Charm, it was a real worry for Connor. As far as he was concerned, things just didn’t add up, certainly not the reasons he’d so far heard being bandied around for his inclusion. For only a few weeks, a month or so, did this compound really need light entertainment; after all, if the bulletins were designed to instill fear, then surely Kirk was ideally qualified to do that. What had Byron Tuttle said? Make yourself indispensable; grab the rope and pull on it. But Charm continued before Connor could answer, the question clearly rhetorical.
