Starship Liberator

by B. V. Larson

  At least once every day, Lazarus would come around and lecture him about Liberty, Equality, and Mutuality, this regime’s guiding principles, and ask if he was ready to confess. Every day Straker refused, as did Loco. All the others had succumbed to the threat of being turned into a Hok.

  The cleverest torment of all came at unpredictable intervals, when they were taken from their boxes and treated with sudden dignity. Trusted prisoners from other sections would carry or lead them to showers to wash, would feed them decent meals, and would earnestly urge them to confess.

  “Just tell them what they want to hear,” one pretty young thing told Straker over and over. “They don’t really care what you say or what you’ve done. It’s a way to break you down and get you to comply. If they think they’re winning, they’ll go easy on you.” She stroked his hoary cheek. “If you don’t, they’ll turn you into a Hok.”

  “If they were going to do that they would have done it by now.”

  The woman shrugged and whispered in his ear. “I’m just saying what they tell me to say. But if they ever do give up on you, the biotech will burrow into your brain and you won’t be you anymore.”

  “How long does it take after injection? To start losing your mind?”

  “About a week, I hear.”

  “Thanks. But I won’t let them win,” he rasped. “I don’t care what they do. Now go back and tell them you tried.”

  Later, he was shackled to chairs in classrooms where uniformed drones lectured them endlessly about Service to the Mutuality. They talked about their Responsibility to Rehabilitate, and above all about the importance of confessing their crimes—even crimes they didn’t know they’d committed.

  They called it “self-criticism.” It seemed to be a central tenet of these people’s ideology, to tear down the individual and make each person complicit in his or her own slavery. To shame themselves, to become “mutual.”

  Underlying it all was the threat of being turned into a monster. But that was a last resort. What they really wanted was self-chosen conformity. In a way, using the Hok serum meant they’d lost the battle of wills.

  After long hours of indoctrination, interrupted only by a meager but welcome meal, they were allowed to sleep in warm, comfortable cots. If the Celestial Legion and the afterlife existed, he was sure it would be filled with clean sheets and soft beds.

  The worst part was the awakening from these happy respites, inevitably roused from a deep sleep. At that point, they’d roughly return him to misery.

  Every step he took as the guards led him back to his cage, he had to think about the grinding frustration of another week spent lying naked, half-folded and bruised on rusting steel bars in full view of the others in the next section. In full view of those who’d already “confessed.”

  Loco helped Straker endure, keeping up his usual patter of dark humor from a cage nearby. Engels supported him and Loco too, even in their degradation. She would come at least once a day to stand at the wire fence and salute them silently, eyes full of concern, as he ached in his cage.

  Straker was grateful she didn’t plead with him or look on him with pity. His respect for her, already immense, only grew. She might not be a mechsuiter, but she was a warrior, fighting battles in her own way. He didn’t begrudge her strategy.

  Every day he wished he could be like her—strong enough to do something weak, as she’d put it. But he couldn’t. If he gave in, he feared that it wouldn’t stop. If he cracked now, he might fall apart completely. He might lose his core, his self.

  It was this single fear that drove him on. Was that weakness or strength? He wasn’t sure.

  He’d read martial treatises that argued differing views on the point. Some claimed an iron will would win the day. Others advised bending like a reed so as not to break. Still more said it was best to flow like water, giving in and vanishing into the earth, but without truly being altered in form.

  He longed for the simplicity of combat, to live or to die, not to merely survive like an animal.

  Survive with honor. That’s what Chen had said. He wondered what had become of Chen. Maybe he’d gotten away. Straker hoped so. Lazarus had said they’d only captured two mechsuiters. If he and Loco didn’t crack, their enemies would get nothing.

  Chapter 17

  Facility Alpha Six, day 37.

  Engels sat in the daily self-critique session, reviewing her patter. She’d assembled a speech from snippets of what she’d heard in others, and she could now recite it verbatim. Her main challenge was to come across as spontaneous.

  The Mutuals didn’t really seem to care about the content, anyway. It was the form that mattered to them, and the sincerity with which it was expressed, not the truthfulness of it. They had their own special jargon as well, and ordinary words didn’t always mean what you thought they did.

  Her turn came to speak. She stood and faced the rest of the prisoners, adopting her practiced, slightly vacuous tone.

  “I was unknowingly recruited to fight against the Mutuality,” she said, “when I entered an institution of lies known as Academy Station. There, they implanted chips in my head and brainwashed me into becoming a selfish, unmutual lackey, ready and willing to slaughter anyone I was ordered to assault.”

  The Dialectic Controller in charge was a fat man called Jeremy. He nodded, encouraging.

  Trying not to feel sickened by her own truth-twisting, she continued. “I know now I was being used, and I accept responsibility for participating in this unmutuality against my fellow humans and allied beings. I now understand that only through the principles of Liberty, Equality and Mutuality can I be redeemed and rehabilitated. Mutualism is the ultimate expression of the human collective social system. I hope someday my crimes will be expunged, allowing me to become a productive citizen.”

  She sat down at last, relieved it was over.

  “Very good, Carla. Why don’t you tell us something more personal, though? Have you strayed from Mutualist principles recently? Since you arrived at this reeducation facility, for example?” Jeremy leaned forward as if to hear better, eager to take in any indiscretion.

  Standing again, Engels racked her brain for something that would satisfy him. “In the Mutual Eating Hall, I saw that another woman’s bread portion was larger than mine, and I coveted it.”

  “And why is that wrong?”

  “Because it violates the principle of Equality. Everyone should share equally. No one should have more than another. But I have a question, Controller Jeremy.”

  “Yes, Carla?”

  “I’ve seen the staff and guards eating food that is better than ours, and more of it. Some of them even get fat. That doesn’t seem like equality.”

  Jeremy smiled as if she were a child, but at the same time he subtly sucked in his ample gut. “That is only because you’re not completely rehabilitated yet. Once you become one with the Mutuality, you will share equally in all its rewards. As well, remember some people have slow metabolisms. That’s the only reason they’re fat.”

  “But Controller… I also noticed that Inquisitor Lazarus wears fine clothing, and he is picked up daily by a luxury groundcar with a driver. And he’s not fat. Do you have fine clothing and a driver?”

  Jeremy’s expression leaked a discomfort he tried to hide. “He doesn’t own those clothes or the groundcar, just like a pilot does not own her warship. They are provided by our benevolent Mutuality to enhance the effectiveness of his role. ”

  “I understand the groundcar, but how does fine clothing relate to his effectiveness? Besides, I thought all positions were mutually and equally important, right?”

  Jeremy began to raise his voice. “As humans, we’re all mutually and equally important. However, genetics and chance have granted us varying talents and skills. Some talents and skills are temporarily more critical, especially during the war we are fighting. The enemy forces compromise upon us, but once we have achieved a victorious peace, the utopia we are all working toward will arrive, as long a
s we dedicate ourselves to the Mutuality.”

  Engels noticed Jeremy had avoided addressing how having fine clothing related to the importance of a position. Mutuality officials were supposed to set the example for all citizens, after all.

  “But—” she began again.

  “Carla,” he interrupted loudly, “doubts are a natural part of the dialectic process, but too much doubt can also derail your comrades’ rehabilitation. You wouldn’t want to seem unmutual, would you? I’d hate to have to report you for reversion. You’d be sent for extra pain therapy, and we wouldn’t want that, hmm?”

  Engels lowered her head. “No, Controller Jeremy. In speaking freely, I only wanted to comply with the principle of Liberty. I apologize for straying from its strict confines.”

  She sat back down as if cowed, but surreptitiously glanced at her fellow prisoners. Some met her gaze and nodded or winked. Obviously, they recognized hypocrisy when they saw it. Or maybe they simply liked to see Jeremy sweat.

  Some days, even the smallest of victories were enough to keep her going. She continued to listen and learn, to read between the lines, and to gather data. Eventually she’d be able to talk to Straker and Loco, and maybe start figuring out some kind of plan for escape.

  Before she did, hope came in a whisper. More than a rumor, but less than a promise. The word was passed: “The Unmutuals are coming.”

  * * *

  The next will-sapping relief-and-indoctrination period brought a change of tactics on the part of Straker’s captors. When he and Loco shuffled wearily from the showers—Loco’s legs had finally healed—Carla Engels met them instead of an anonymous collaborator.

  They’d let her grow her hair out. She’d never looked better to him. He stumbled into her arms.

  “No touching!” a nearby female trustee yelled, smashing him across the kidney with her baton.

  “Turncoat,” he snarled at the trustee as he shoved his tormenter away. “Why are you doing their dirty work?”

  “Derek!” Engels hissed. Insistently, she repeated his name until he turned his attention to her. “Come with me. You too, Loco.” She led them to an empty room with tables and chairs. “Sit down, both of you.”

  The two men took seats across from her. When the other woman made as if to sit nearby, Engels pointed at the door. “Stand there and tell me if anyone comes.”

  The trustee sulked, but nodded and complied.

  “You’ve got her well-trained,” Loco said. “You ladies bunkies?”

  “Shut the hell up, Loco,” Engels said. “That mouth will get you killed someday.”

  “I—”

  “Loco, quiet,” Straker said, and his friend shut up. He turned back to Engels, sensing something important was happening. “Tell us what’s going on.”

  “I have an hour, so there’s no need to rush it,” she replied. “They’re watching us, but not listening, I don’t think. Even if they are, it won’t matter. They want me to tell you as much as I know. They want me to convince you guys to give up and join their collective.”

  “Collective?”

  Engels chuckled. “That’s what some of us call it. Just a nickname. Its proper name is the Mutuality, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  Straker snorted. “Yeah, they’ve lectured us on the topic a few times.”

  “Technically there’s no difference between the State and the citizenry here. They’re all part of the State and the State is everything. Everyone has an assigned role. Liberty, Equality, Mutuality.”

  Loco snorted. “Not much liberty around here.”

  “Or equality,” Engels agreed. “Some people are more equal than others.” She gave them a weak smile. “But there’s a lot of mutuality, you have to admit that.”

  All the frustration of the last weeks bubbled up. “Dammit Carla,” Straker said, “tell me something that matters. Tell me how we can get out of here! We don’t have clean beds and good food like you sellouts do.”

  He saw hot tears of anger rise to Engels eyes. “After all I’ve gone through, the fake collaboration and endless indoctrination and false self-critique and the compromises I’ve made just to be able to sit here, and now you’re calling me a sellout?”

  “Sorry…” he said. “It’s this place. It’s…”

  “It’s killing us. I know.” She covered his hand with hers. This faintest contact felt like heaven.

  “No touching!” yelled the trustee from the doorway.

  Engels withdrew her hand. “You have to start cooperating. It’s all fake anyway. The whole society is based on fear and bullshitting the true believers, acting righteous according to their ideology while actually doing whatever they can get away with. If you don’t give in… Derek, the biotech will destroy your mind. Although for you, Loco, that might be a blessing.”

  “Gee, thanks,” said Loco. He turned to Straker. “Boss, it seems like the right play. Survive with honor.”

  Straker hunched his shoulders. “I can’t. I won’t confess to fake beliefs just to get out of being tortured. That’s dishonor.”

  Engels’ voice grew strained. “But these people don’t believe in it either! Everything’s built on lies and everyone knows they’re lies, so they’re not really lies and it doesn’t really matter!”

  “It matters to me. I can’t do it.”

  She made a sound of exasperation. “Loco, talk some sense into him!”

  Loco shrugged. “When did he ever listen to me?”

  “Loco, you confess,” Straker said. “That way you can help Carla figure out how to escape.”

  “Dammit,” Loco said, “if we all confess, we can all work on escaping together.”

  “There’s another reason to do it,” said Engels. She leaned in and spoke in a bare whisper. “I heard something. Something is going to happen. Maybe a rescue attempt. We need to be together when it happens.”

  Dropping his eyes, Straker said again, “No.”

  “Damn you,” Loco said, his temper fraying. “I suppose I have to keep being abused? You stubborn bastard.”

  “I’m not stubborn. I’m loyal.”

  “What you are is a selfish fool, Straker,” said a booming voice from the doorway.

  They turned to see Inquisitor Lazarus standing there. The trustee lookout hadn’t warned them. In fact, she was gone.

  “Take him,” Lazarus said.

  Guards swarmed into the room, pulling the three in separate directions.

  A dozen men hauled Straker down a corridor he’d never seen. He kicked and punched them, knocking several down, but they pummeled him mercilessly and dragged him away. They threw him into a different cell.

  Inquisitor Lazarus addressed him from beyond the bars, backed by the guards. “Straker, I’m at the point of cutting my losses with you. You would have been a feather in my cap had you rehabilitated yourself and joined the fight against your corrupt former masters. I gave you so much, and you played me for a fool. I let you see your girlfriend. I even bent Mutualist principles to help you understand why you should confess and take responsibility for all the men and women you killed as a war-slave.”

  Straker stood. “That’s bullshit. But even if it’s true, there’s no way I was wrong to fight you people.”

  “Who cares about right and wrong? This isn’t about finding fault, Straker. In that tight military society you were a part of, what was most important, fault or responsibility? We’re talking about taking ownership of your crimes, asking forgiveness from society, and rejoining the Mutuality.”

  “Re-joining?” Straker put his face to the hole in the door, so that he was eye to eye with Lazarus. “I was never part of your anthill.”

  “Every human in the galaxy is part of the Mutuality, Straker. They’re just temporarily ruled by someone else right now. What’s important is that you can rejoin the Mutuality. We need your help to free the rest, so they can rejoin us too.”

  “As a mechsuiter.”

  “As I’ve said many times. You can spearhead the development program.
Until now, mechsuits and pilots have been far too expensive and specialized to develop, build and maintain. The Mutuality is a poor society, not rich like your pampered citizens.”

  “Whose fault is that? Maybe if you treated people like human beings instead of interchangeable machines, they’d work harder for you and make everyone richer and happier!”

  “Once again, you focus on fault over responsibility. The delusional thoughts you cling to are saturated by propaganda. Your citizens’ happiness is a pleasant illusion. Consumer goods do not bring fulfillment. Only service to something greater can feed the soul.”

  Straker stood. “Maybe you ought to let people choose for themselves.”

  Lazarus snorted in disdain. “Your kind of freedom is an illusion. Our methods might be harsh, but they’re honest. We tell you what you have to do, and you get to decide. Even if one choice is a stupid, painful one—it’s your choice. We don’t breed people from birth to be genetically enhanced warriors, like the Hundred Worlds. You never had any choice, Straker. You were told every day that you were going to be a mechsuiter and that’s what you became.”

  “Choice?” Straker laughed. “If people don’t bend to your will, you change them into monsters. That’s not freedom.”

  “As I told you, only incorrigible criminals are forced to become Hok. And, now that it’s clear you’ll never cooperate, you’ve fallen into that category.” Lazarus waved the guards in.

  They seized Straker. He fought them, breaking the jaw of one and snapping the arm of another, but a low-power stunner made his muscles turn to rubber.

  Once he’d been subdued, Lazarus entered the cell with an injection gun in one slim fist. Straker struggled again, but he was held immobile while the Inquisitor pressed the device against his neck.

  The sharp stink of Lazarus’ breath rolled over his face. Hot stinging fluids burned his neck.