Killswitch, page 11
Then they asked me to bomb a building.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After Rin left, I tried to pick up the book again, but I’d only gotten through a few pages when I fell into an exhausted sleep. The next thing I knew, the wall had lit up with an incoming call. It was Brian.
“Accept,” I said groggily, and the screen produced his image. He was in the Assembly room. It was packed and noisy as usual.
“Mavo,” Brian said, cutting through the chatter. “I know we weren’t supposed to meet until dinner, but something’s come up and we could really use you right away.” He looked apologetic.
“What is it?” I asked, a little annoyed. I had barely gotten back to my room. “Do you want me to make another speech?”
“No, nothing like that,” he said. “It’s a planning session.”
That sounded beyond vague. I wondered if he was intentionally being evasive.
“I’ll be there,” I said and blanked the screen.
Downstairs, Leon was waiting to escort me to the Assembly room. I wondered if he was ever off duty. I suspected I was his full-time assignment. Which was not a comforting thought.
A guard I didn’t recognize was at the doors but, at a nod from Leon, let me through without a word.
The moment I entered, the chatter stopped. All eyes turned to me. I halted, not sure where I was expected to go. I noticed that the junk food was piled higher than ever. Brian was in a small group of people on the dais. He motioned me forward.
This time, everybody stepped back. I could move forward without difficulty, other than the fact that I was a little daunted and tense, so my legs felt wobbly. If it was another speech after all, I was going to turn around and leave— after punching Brian.
But when I reached him, Brian gave me a warm smile and explained.
“Mavo,” he said. “I know you usually work alone, but we’re planning something and we could use your insight.”
I felt a chill down my back. There was only one thing these people knew about me, or thought they did.
I struggled to keep my voice calm as I replied: “You’re going to kill someone?”
Brian blinked as if he couldn’t decide whether I was joking.
“We’re going to destroy a symbol of oppression,” he said and then began talking slowly and deliberately, as if choosing each word. I was all too aware that the entire room was listening to every syllable.
“There’s a factory east of town,” Brian said. “It’s a cow factory.”
This time I blinked. I remembered that Rin had used the phrase. “Oh,” I said, as if it meant something to me.
Brian did something with one hand and the screens around the room lit up. They showed an aerial shot of an industrial complex surrounded by desert. I saw white domes and one large, square rectangle. As the image zoomed in, I saw it was a cluster of tall, silo-like structures and behind them, a giant white cube. The complex was surrounded by gates. Trucks moved in and out, providing a reference point to the size of the buildings. They were enormous.
Words floated above the scene. They said: “Harvest Home Industries: Ruminant Division,” and under it: “Employee Orientation.”
The image switched. Now we were moving inside one of the silos. It was actually a series of huge concentric rings, sectioned off into stalls. And in each stall was something immense and strange. I couldn’t quite make out what it was before the scene shifted. Suddenly we were on a range, like in the old Immersion Westerns. Cattle were mooing in the background. Slouching against a split-rail fence was a rangy cartoon cowboy with a hat larger than his head. He was chewing on a stalk of something. He took it out of his mouth and touched the brim of his hat.
“Howdy, pardners,” he said. “I’m Tex. Welcome to the Ruminant Division. You have signed with the most efficient and technologically advanced outfit in the whole ding-danged world.”
Tex waved a hand behind him. “This here’s the way folks used to raise cattle. It was labor-intensive, costly and slow. It took three years before you could get a nice steak.” Tex shook his head. His hat wobbled.
The scene changed. Now Tex was standing in front of a silo room. He smiled and jerked a thumb behind him.
“And this here’s the modern way to grow a steak.” He grinned. “Not three years. Three months. Let’s see how we do it.”
A series of still images flashed by. Tex narrated. The first showed a normal calf, followed by a quick series in which it seemed to be growing. As it grew, its head shrank, it legs shriveled, its tail disappeared, and then as I watched in horror, its hide sloughed off. The last shot showed an enormous torso, pink and glistening and the size of a tank. The scene pulled back. The torso was suspended from a harness, the vestigial legs twitching as the remainder of the head— chiefly lips— munched unceasingly at some sort of feed. Clear tubes funneled away waste.
I heard people hissing behind me.
The scene pulled back and I could see now that the— animal? Thing?— was in one of the stalls in the silo. I realized there must be hundreds of them in one concentric ring alone.
Tex spoke again.
“They don’t move and they don’t moo, but in every other way, they’re all cow. All natural, with less waste. One hundred percent real Wagyu-cloned critters. And they meet all Unity rules and regulations for humane production. You can be proud to work for an outfit that meets the highest standards.”
Tex pulled a big spotted red handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around his neck. A big knife and fork appeared in his hands.
“And don’t forget, you’re helping to create one of the world’s rarest and most prestigious food products. Real beef!”
“From fleshpots and meat machines!” someone yelled angrily.
The image switched to a steak, pink on the inside, glistening with moisture or fat, sizzling and smoking as if it had just come off the grill.
Tex’s voice said: “And they’re tasty, too!” Then his face reappeared. He winked, and the scene went dark.
I felt my lunch churning in my stomach. I tried to keep from gagging. I heard angry murmuring all around me. The screens went black.
Brian stepped forward.
“This is our target,” he said. “Anchorage provided the footage. It clearly wasn’t intended for public use. At the right time, we’ll release it.”
“It’s disgusting,” I blurted.
“Ruminant is proud of its operation,” Brian said. “Unity forbids the slaughter of thinking creatures, so this is their workaround, and they can still claim to be offering a natural product.” He made a face. “They even butcher it on site, the old-fashioned way.”
“You mean, people eat this... stuff?” I asked.
“Circuit-lovers and calorie-suckers,” someone shouted. “Filthy Unity slaves!”
There were angry murmurs of agreement.
“It’s a luxury item,” Brian said. “To produce one of these steaks requires enough resources and energy to supply a dozen people. And whatever they say, it tastes just the same as high-end vat meat. It’s all about prestige.”
I knew that people always had their pecking orders and status symbols. But it seemed wrong, somehow, to be proud of something so selfish and unnecessary.
“What are you planning to do?” I asked.
“Take it down,” Brian said.
“How?”
Brian looked at me. “That’s what we’d like you to decide.”
I didn’t ask, “Why me?” These people thought I’d managed to breach some of the highest security on the planet. So clearly, I was an old hand at infiltration and sabotage.
I took a breath. I had to say something right now before this got out of hand.
“Before we go on, I think there needs to be a rule: We should avoid casualties.”
“Why?” A slender man who was mostly mustache said, jumping up from his desk. “Nobody made those people work there. They could just take a Unity stipend. They’re guilty, too.”
I held up a hand, “Look, I’m from the Outside, and I can tell you that there are still a lot of desperate people who will do what they have to. There are still areas where people suffer and don’t get stipends. Otherwise, why would two million people have just died from starvation?”
There were murmurs of agreement but also some scoffing. I added hastily: “Besides, it’s bad for our image. People don’t generally like to see other people killed. Except for me, of course. I’m Number One on the Hit Parade.” I gave a rueful smile. That earned me a general chuckle.
“All right,” Brian broke in. “I think we can agree that Mavo has given us some food for thought. So, Mavo, what do you think? Chemical, biological, software?”
Despite myself, I was intrigued. How would I take down a factory?
“Show me the outside again,” I said, and the screens brought up the aerial view of the plant.
I shook my head. “Software? Near impossible with Unity, and the company probably has proprietary safeblocks and metafilters. They constantly react to threats. We’d need a programmer inside and I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Anchorage might have some sort of mole or maybe a military virus,” someone suggested hopefully. “That’s how we took down the satellite.”
“If Anchorage had it, Anchorage would have used it,” Brian said. “So, Mavo? No software?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
Brian held up both hands. “All right. For now, let’s put software aside.” There were some groans but no actual opposition.
“Right. Mavo, what about a chemical attack?”
“What kind?” I asked.
Mustache said: “Pollute the feed lines. Destroy the product.”
Someone gave a derogatory bark.
“I can see the Immersion headlines now, ‘Cows ruined at factory. Minor disruption. Realists suspected.’ We’d look like amateurs!”
“Well, then let’s hear your great idea!” someone shouted.
“Yeah!”
Suddenly everyone was yelling and trying to talk over each other. Brian looked exasperated.
While they were squabbling, I was thinking. They were working too hard. It was all too complicated.
Simple was better.
“I think,” I said loudly. “We should blow it up.”
The room went silent.
“You mean,” someone said timidly. “With a, a bomb?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“But that’s... so crude.”
“Crude is good,” I said. “Look, someone nearly killed me with a chunk of asphalt. That’s about as low-tech as you can get. But that attack slid under Unity radar. They couldn’t anticipate it. A bomb is less likely to tip anyone off.”
“So you’re saying—” someone began. “But wouldn’t that cause, what was that word you used? Casualties?”
“No, we get the people out first. The only thing that goes up is the structure.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt, which wasn’t confident at all.
I wasn’t sure I’d convinced them. People seemed to be looking at each other in confusion.
Then Trino, who until now had stood with his arms crossed and hadn’t said a word, spoke up.
“Mavo’s right,” he said. “And think about this: We want to make a statement. A dramatic one. Is there anything more dramatic than blowing up a plant—” he paused, theatrically, “—on live Immersion?”
Again, the room fell silent. I heard a chorus of oohs and aahs. With one well-chosen comment, Trino had done what I couldn’t, even though I supposedly was the brains.
I turned to Brian, but his expression was blank. He waited a moment, nodded to Trino and stepped forward.
“Well, what do we think?” Brian said. “We agreed we’d go with the option that Mavo chose.”
“This wasn’t one of the options,” Mustache complained, but he was met with a collective groan. The squabbling began again.
I reminded myself that these were the same people who had taken down a satellite. Maybe Anchorage, and with Trino and Brian, were the only rational ones. The rest of them seemed to be buffoons. I pictured clowns tripping over their own feet while trying to knock down the circus tent. But then I reminded myself that they weren’t just clowns. They were dangerous, lethal clowns.
I had to take charge, I decided. I couldn’t imagine what kind of carnage could result if the real Realists planned this operation.
And in the back of my mind was this thought: They liked me now, they treated me well, but I couldn’t wear my Realist mask forever. I still needed to get away from them. Maybe this operation could be the chance for me to do that. Although I had no idea where I would go.
What about planning the attack but sabotaging it? No. If I arranged for the scheme to be thwarted somehow by Unity, that might lead Trino to suspect I’d done it on purpose, or make people who admired me to lose confidence. Either situation could prove deadly to me.
Also, although I didn’t like to admit it, I relished the challenge. How would I sneak a bomb into a secure facility?
Besides, I had no love for that factory.
All these thoughts were whirling around in my head as a voice I recognized spoke up from the back of the room.
“Everybody! Listen, your ideas are all good!” It was Rin.
She was standing near the door. Nobody seemed to have noticed her arrival and yet the moment she spoke, the bickering seemed to subside. It was as if she radiated some force field of calm. Everyone’s attention was turning her way. She raised her chin and continued.
“Look,” she said. “Mavo is here to help us. He’s got skills we don’t. He’s done something nobody thought possible.” She raised both hands. “Why did we bring him here if we won’t listen to him?”
There were murmurs but now they seemed to be ones of agreement. I saw heads nodding. Rin’s presence had entirely changed the atmosphere of the room. Now everybody seemed to want to be agreeable.
Brian smoothly took advantage of the moment. He stepped forward on the dais and said, “Rin is right. Mavo is the best choice. We already agreed to this. Does anyone oppose having Mavo guide us?”
It was a backward way of saying, “Let Mavo do it.” I thought Brian probably said it that way because it was easier for people to agree through silence than to speak up and be singled out.
I had a grudging respect for his people-wrangling skills.
Now, I had to hone my own skills— for destruction.
“CRAP,” I SAID. IT WAS the answer. I had wandered over to FreeJack to look into the history of bomb-making. FreeJack was the only place on the continent where I could do that and not instantly find myself under a mind-probe, a psych-dispensation order or mandatory reeducation.
What I discovered was that agricultural byproducts, including manure, could be converted into ammonium nitrate, used in fertilizer and also in homemade explosives.
Methane also was extracted from manure. In old-fashioned cattle feedlots, producers would store methane as liquid waste in outdoor lagoons, where bacteria would digest it and convert it to natural gas.
A cow factory must have tons of manure to dispose of. Maybe they produced fertilizer as a byproduct and energy to run the plant or to sell. Maybe they weren’t just making steaks over there. They could be using every part of the cow except the moo.
Fertilizer and natural gas, I thought. Both were highly explosive under the right conditions.
If I could hijack a truck full of that stuff...
A plan was forming, but I had nearly used up my hour and I certainly didn’t want to go into the project with a splitting skull.
Before unplugging, I decided to check my Popularity rankings. I was curious to see if, in the week since I escaped, people had begun to forget me. I had learned that, unlike the Outside where everyone held decades-long grudges, most people had short-term memories about current events. They were Immersed most of the time, and there was just too much going on, all at once, to keep track. Even outrage usually only lasted for a few days. In fact, Unity had come up with a series of commemorations just to reinforce collective memory and keep major events from slipping into oblivion.
My Pop ranking had barely moved, but there was a green exclamation mark next to my name, which meant there was something new. I clicked.
To my shock, I saw that I was the first item in all the major news summaries. The Realists had released my speech without telling me. There I was, larger than life. I looked strong, confident. A little too much, in fact.
I looked closer. Had they tweaked the lighting? It was subtle, but I didn’t recall seeing any light in the room that picked out my cheekbones so dramatically.
And my words had been edited imperceptibly. My hesitations and fumblings had been deleted.
I switched into the emotional feed. It also had been tampered with.
Gone were my uncertainties and my mixed feelings. Somebody had dubbed in a track of moral certainty and triumph. I pictured a group of technicians editing me on the fly, deftly switching emotional content as I spoke. Like music tracks, they bumped up certain tones and muted others.
A thought hit me: Maybe somebody had simply flipped a switch and a canned algorithm had inserted a basic emotional track, like the laugh-track in ancient television comedies.
Somehow that seemed worse, to think that even the Realists relied on non-humans to fluff up their messaging. Either way, they’d used me, turned me into a product.
I’d known I was there to be useful and that my safety depended on it, but I hadn’t believed the Realists could be so ruthless about it. I was sure most of them had no clue about this; they were as duped as I was. But clearly somebody had done it. Trino could have. Hadn’t he just talked about making a dramatic statement with the factory attack?
Brian could have done it. I really didn’t know what lay behind his smooth personality.
And then a chilling thought hit me.
Rin had left early in the speech. Where had she gone? Maybe to oversee the editing.
All I knew for sure was that the adulation of the crowd might not be enough to save me if someone up the Realist food chain decided I’d outlasted my utility. Someone had already decided to twist my words. Where would they stop?
