“Fuck upsetting. I thought I might be useful for something more than firewood.”
“I—we, ah, I mean, nobody wants to do that. It’s not supposed to kill you. It’s not supposed to even hurt.”
“Yeah, tell me another.”
Faller gives a resigned nod that’s barely more than essential tremor. He comes over by me and picks up the hand unit. “Here. You control it. Nobody else.”
It really is like a morphine pump—just a handle with a button switch that’ll dispense a measured amount of black shit into my bloodstream. “So, what, it’s an assisted suicide thing?”
Faller gives me an exhausted shrug. “I don’t know, Caine. Hari. I don’t know anything. I just do what they tell me.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Could be worse.” He smiles, just a bit. “I could be the cripple stripcuffed to a restraint bed with a crude oil I.V.”
“There’s crippled and there’s crippled, Simon.” He doesn’t ask me to explain, so I don’t. “What happens now?”
Another sigh. He’s barely vertical, bracing himself on my bedrail. “Right. Ah, that offer you made to the Board of Governors—guaranteed permanent Overworld access in exchange for amnesty and a job—”
“Yeah, I was there. What about it?”
“Well … this is, uh—I guess you’d call it,” Faller says reluctantly as he turns my bed so I can see out the window, “their counteroffer.”
“Wow.” I blink, and then I blink again, but it’s all still out there. “I mean, wow.”
The landscape’s grim: blasted hills and rock bleached white enough to hurt my eyes and not one living thing except for about a division of Social Police manning hardened bunkers and pointing everything from radar-directed sea whiz cannon to railguns to turret-mounted sixteen-fucking-inch guns out over the dead moonscape or up into the empty sky.
Honest-to-fuck artillery.
And the sky isn’t empty. Not when I really look. Way up high, it’s actually kind of crowded, what with all the shiny pinpoints that are probably the latest generation of riot cars.
Faller coughs behind my head. “The, ah, Social Police are, I guess, hoping to deter a rescue attempt. Or, ah, escape.”
“Somebody did mention to them that I can’t walk, right?”
“They—uh, they like to be thorough.”
“And escape to where? Jesus, look at that shit.”
I nod out toward the ragged hills rising in the middle distance: only the colors of stone and dirt. “There’s nothing out there. Not even sagebrush or cactus or any other goddamn thing. What the hell is this, the Korean Peninsula?”
“Ah, no. No, we’re in North America. We, uh … this installation is in the Dakota Badlands.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard—but I never thought it could still—”
“It is. Even now. Hotter than the provincial authority has ever admitted. That’s why all the slavelanes divert south. There is nothing alive here that we didn’t bring with us.”
“I better knit myself some lead underwear.”
“Better knit yourself a tank.”
Wait … the Dakota Badlands … holy shit again. Holy shittier. “It’s the dil. That’s why this fort’s here. That’s why I’m here. This is the Earthside face of the dil T’llan.”
He shrugs. “No reason to deny it now. Neither of us is going anywhere.”
Well.
Well well well. Explains the anti-magick shit. And the black oil.
Back outside the window some guys are walking by—what the fuck? No armor … and they’re huge … and that color isn’t cammo, it’s their fucking skin …
“Holy shit …” I can’t seem to get my breath. “Ogrilloi …? On Earth? Are you pulling my fucking dick?”
“The, ah, Overworld Company has been employing ogrilloi at this facility for, ah—” He coughs harshly, and again, and he wipes his mouth with a handkerchief stained with what looks like blood. “For a while. They, ah, are very reliable. And they need very little upkeep. Mostly meat and beer.”
“Has anybody told them how all their little grills are getting slow-roasted every time they take a step out there?”
“Apparently some factor of their genetics makes them resistant. About the worst they can get here is sunburn. And I’ve never seen an ogrillo with a sunburn.”
He’s got a point, but—
“And you give them weapons? Jesus, what are you, suicidal?” Then I get it. How much damage can ogrilloi do with small arms out here in the Badlands? Kill a few Social Police, maybe an Administrator or two, and that’s about it. But heavily armed ogrilloi on Home is a different fucking story. “Orbek’s pistol … he really did get it in town.”
Faller nods tiredly. “Relations have been … strained … with the Order of Khryl for a long time. Ever since we first opened the gate, in fact. The Board of Governors has been preparing, ah, a contingency plan … and following your, ah—the death of the Justiciar—well, as you can imagine, we anticipate that the Order intends to shut down our Homeside operation. Possibly even close the gate—the dil—if they can.”
“So you cut a side deal with the grills?” It actually makes sense. Too much fucking sense.
The only reason anybody bothers to deal with the Order of Khryl in the first place is their military occupation of the dil T’llan. We have to play nice, because they’re in place and they have power and they are not to be lightly fucked with—but a few thousand ogrilloi with state-of-the-art training and Home-friendly firearms could kick their armored asses right the fuck off the Battleground.
I don’t care how much God loves you. Getting shot in the face with an anti-tank rocket is gonna leave a fucking mark.
With the Order gone, taking with it all that whole Justice and Truth and Knightly Virtue shit that must put a serious cramp in the Company’s operation … Jesus, we don’t even need ogrilloi to work the mines; once we have full control of the dil T’llan we can ship a billion Laborers—five billion, more—there practically overnight. No wonder they think they don’t need me.
Well, fuck. This could be going better.
“So what’s the deal?”
Faller hands me the palmpad. “The docs are in memory. You can read the details for yourself.”
“Soon as somebody unstrips my cuffs.”
His eyes shift, and his right hand fiddles with a loose button on his jacket, and for a second it’s twenty-five years ago and we’re waiting for the Black Knives and he’s playing with that fucking platinum coin. “Maybe not just yet.”
“It’s that bad?” I twitch the pump’s hand unit. “Worse than this?”
He sighs, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Don’t. Just … don’t.” I hate when people say they’re sorry. “Save that shit for the kiddie matinee.”
He nods distractedly. “That story—that whole yarn you spun out for me to feed to the Board of Governors, about what happened in Purthin’s Ford—was any of it true? Any at all?”
“Every word. True as fucking Gospel. Maybe truer. Whether that’s a word or not.”
He’s too tired to even pretend to believe me. “All right. Um …” He drifts off toward the door. “Uh, Director? He’s ready for you.”
I look down at the palmpad in my lap. Somehow seems too damn light to carry news this bad. Which is when it finally occurs to me to wonder just how bad this news will be.
Something tells me we won’t part as friends.
“Uh, Caine? This is the Director of Operations for this installation. I understand you know him.”
I look up, and it’s Gayle fucking Keller. “Son of a bitch.”
Gayle fucking Keller in a full-on formal chlamys-and-chiton, no less. Expensive too. The price of his sandals alone could feed a Labor family for six months. “Administrator Keller, is it now?”
“Hello, Hari. I won’t pretend I’ve mi
ssed you.”
I’ll give him that one for free. “You used to be afraid of me.”
“I still am.”
Huh. “That’s … unexpectedly forthright.”
He clasps his hands together behind his butt and spends a second or two staring at the floor like he’s being sent up for life. “I know you disliked me, Hari.”
“I won’t deny it.”
His eyes come up just long enough to register a small, slightly rueful smile. “I know you’ve publicly registered opinions of me that range from smug weasel to unctuous lying little fuck. But I don’t think even you ever thought me to be stupid, or disloyal.”
“You weren’t fucking loyal to me.”
“I didn’t work for you. I was employed by the Studio and the Board of Governors—you may recall discovering you didn’t have the authority to fire me. But even though I wasn’t employed by him, I was loyal to Arturo Kollberg, because he recognized and rewarded loyalty. He valued me as an assistant and a friend, whereas you—”
Different words, same tune. I wave him off. “Been practicing this conversation for a while?”
Again the oddly sincere flicker of rueful smile. “Almost three years.”
There’s something off about him that I can’t quite capture. “Is it as fun as you expected?”
“Not even a little.” Keller sighs. “I won’t try to tell you this isn’t personal. I know you too well to hope you’ll take it any other way. Please understand that I am acting under orders, and that it’s not my intention to cause you distress.”
“Nobody gives a fuck about your intention.”
“I don’t expect you to,” he says. “You told me once that the only thing to which any man is absolutely loyal is his conception of the obligations of manhood.”
“Did I say that? Deeper than my usual.”
“Probably quoting someone smarter. But the idea stayed with me. I understand you, I think. In this context at least. Your absolute obligation is to those you love, yes? It’s well known. Mine is … well, my absolute obligation is to my duty.”
He visibly gathers himself. Deep breath, set jaw, white lips. “I have been given a position of considerable power and advantage, bringing wealth and social opportunities beyond my most fanciful dreams. This position also includes certain unfortunate necessities. The fact that these necessities are unfortunate in no way affects my obligation to accomplish them to the best of my ability. To do my job well is worth my life. It’s the only thing that gives my life meaning, or even value. Does this make sense to you?”
“You’d have made a pretty good Knight of Khryl.”
“I know you don’t mean that as a compliment, but I take it as one.”
He gives me a straight-on level stare, rigidly solemn, like he’s clenching to control an impulse to flinch. “I’ve never been a brave man. That hasn’t changed. Not much, anyway. Violence terrifies me. I’m afraid to be hurt. I’m afraid to die. Especially in ways you have hurt and killed other men.”
“So okay, you’re right about not being stupid.”
“The Board of Governors has full confidence in the Social Police—more perhaps than the Social Police have in themselves. They are confident that you are no longer a threat to anyone, much less me.” Again he sighs, and now he looks down. “They don’t know you like I do.”
Ah, I get it now: he’s telling the truth. That’s the thing that’s off about him. Somebody gave him an integrity transplant.
Huh again. “Careful, Gayle. Keep that shit up and I might decide I don’t hate you anymore.”
“That’s … sort of what I’m hoping for.”
“What, you’re worried I’ll think badly of you?”
“I’m worried you’ll kill me.” He starts coughing and looks away, out the window somewhere until he pulls himself back together. “That’s why I wanted to talk this through before we go any further. Because you once told Professional Faller, ah, I’m not gonna wreck you just for doing your job, man … mm, verbatim. I believe.”
“Like that, is it?”
“I have no authority to make any threat or offer any relief. I am here to fulfill the directives of the Board and the Leisure Congress. As soon as I discharge my duty here, I’ll go back to my office and do whatever is necessary to carry out the task I’ve been given.”
“I told you, I get it. Look, Gayle, for what it’s worth, I really won’t kill you just for doing your job.”
He catches his breath. “Thanks. Thank you, Hari. Even though I know you might find another reason. Or that there need not be a reason at all.”
“I thought that was understood.”
“Apparently it was.” His smile is weak and kind of blurry, but it seems real enough. “Professional? Go ahead, please.”
Faller moves close to my bed and touches a control surface on the rim of the palmpad. The screen lights up with a page of standard-looking contract shit. “Like I said, the documents are in memory. The Board of Governors has directed us to summarize it for you, and confirm that there is no misunderstanding. The summary is, well—the Board of Governors have … um, their counteroffer is, basically … no.”
“I worked that out for myself.”
“You will not be given the title of Director of Overworld Operations. You are, as of this notice, stripped of the title and privileges of Administration, and downcasted to Labor. You will not receive amnesty or immunity from prosecution for any activity you have performed in the past or may perform in the future. You will not return to Overworld—er, Home. Ever.”
“That’s a ballsy opener.”
“The Board presented their resolution to the Leisure Congress. It was approved by acclamation.”
“So much for my fan club.”
“You closed Overworld,” he says apologetically. “Even your fans want you hurt.”
“There’s more?”
He nods. “Laborer Michaelson, you are directed to consult on, and cooperate with, any and every Overworld Company operation that requests your attention until the Board determines you have successfully concluded your assignment. If at any time the Board judges success to be impossible, or that you have engaged in deliberate obstruction or sabotage of this project, or that you no longer have anything of value to contribute, you will be remanded to the Social Police for trial, followed by summary execution for Forcible Contact Upcaste in the murder of Leisureman Marc Vilo.”
“A trial? Seriously?”
“It’s a formality.”
“Oh, that makes it okay, then.” I look over at Gayle. “Don’t these idiots remember what happens when they try to bully me?”
“I’m sure they do,” he says. “I believe they don’t expect you to be intimidated; I believe they only wish the parameters of your situation to be entirely clear. I believe they expect that once you understand, you’ll choose to join them. Of your own free will.”
“Seems unlikely.”
“It’s not my plan.”
I’ll give him that one too. “I’ve had more attractive offers. Slavery and execution kind of leaves out the whole idea of, y’know, sweeteners.”
“My understanding is that it’s not supposed to be attractive. Just the opposite. It’s supposed to make the alternative attractive.”
“Oh, there’s an alternative now?”
“There always has been, Hari,” Gayle says solemnly. “Here, though, it’s a little more straightforward. You might say, unexpectedly forthright. Because the laws of physics here are just a bit different from most of the rest of Earth. Do this one thing, and everything Professional Faller has detailed goes away. We can all be friends.”
“That seems more unlikely.”
“The switch in your hand, Hari.” Gayle nods at the I.V. pump. “All you have to do is press the button.”
Eventually I manage to pick up my jaw. “You are batshit fucking insane.”
“No. And I’m not joking.”
“Do you know what this shit is?”
“Not precisely
. Neither do you. I suspect our superiors have a more complete comprehension. I know what it does. And I have been told that if you don’t accept it—that is to say, if you hit the button without fully consenting to the terms—the substance will kill you. In a spectacularly painful fashion. The specific phrase was, if he does not say yes. Do you understand?”
“Oh, sure. I get it. You know, the first time I saw this shit it was burning Ankhana to the ground.”
“I’m familiar with the history.”
“They want to make me into … whatever the fuck Kollberg was.”
“One more thing you’ll have in common.”
“This was what you were talking about all along. You weren’t talking about enlisting … you want to make me part of that sick hungry mindless fucking thing—”
“Your father called it the Blind God, yes. It’s not, though. Blind. Not at all. Nor mindless, unless we allow it to be.”
“It’s not? You’re not. That’s what you mean. I can fucking smell it on you. It’s in you. You’re in them.”
And that’s the integrity transplant right there: he has no fear of shame, no fear of humiliation, no self-pity, none of the resentments and weaknesses that defined his life. Now the only way to hurt him is to hurt him. Physical fear is the only one he has left.
Kris said each of us is the sum of our scars. Dad used to say we are defined by what we fear. “Jesus to fuck and back again, Gayle—did you somehow miss what happened to Kollberg? How could you do this to yourself?”
“It was my duty.”
“Holy shit.”
“I’m not entirely sure why it frightens you,” he said. “You don’t get lost in it, Hari. I’m still me. But I’m part of something greater now.”
“Tell it to Kollberg.”
Even this Gayle takes with only a thoughtful nod. “Administrator Kollberg is not a … representative example. The events surrounding his breakdown left his mind, ah, fragile. Exceedingly fragile.”
“It wasn’t too sturdy before.”
“The belief was that his expertise in Studio operations, and intimate acquaintance with your career, would on balance make him an asset. But—” He turns up his hands. “—everyone makes mistakes, yes?”
I turn the switch over in my hand. I imagine my face must look like I’m holding a handful of radioactive weasel shit. “The more I think about this, the more I’m liking the slavery-and-execution option.”
Caine's Law Page 4
