The People Farm

By Kristopher MacGregor

After years of civil war, Europe is a single authoritarian state called the Magistrate. Lichtenstein has been converted into the People Farm, a massive concentration compound for society's undesirables, live-streamed from every angle, at all times. The brainchild of Sovereign Simian Swallow, the Farm has long kept the attention of the masses with its annual prisoner championships and live human hunting by the elite. Deep in the Alps, the Resentment, an armed counterinsurgency group, is planning a coup of its own. Their goal is to get inside the Farm, and inspire mass revolt against the Magistrate's authority by freeing famed and beloved citizen, Dram Patton, who was condemned to the compound a decade prior by the Sovereign himself, on a slate of bogus charges. Sovereign Swallow promised "solution, security, and spectacle" when he devised the Farm. Now, all three are up in the air, as the fates of a rebel, the Farm's confused director, a confined living legend, and the Sovereign himself hang in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristopher MacGregor
• Release date: Jan 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9780995067349

Book preview

The People Farm

Copyright

The People Farm

© 2018 by Kristopher MacGregor

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

First Published in 2018

by Roguescots Press

Vancouver, Canada

ISBN 978-0-9950673-4-9

www.kristophermacgregor.com

www.roguescots.com

DEDICATION

To the kids in the hall. Or at least the drama room foyer at Kelowna Secondary School. We imagined this world together. What were we thinking? Talk about troubled youth…

THE STATE OF THE WORLD

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OFFICIAL MAGISTRATE DECREE

April 2, 2032

It is hereby so made that all residents of the former Liechtenstein shall be relocated from their domain, along with subjects within the bounds of her surrounding former nations, to external territories. Those affected will receive transitory compensation and reestablishment packages, equal or greater than their current living situation, dependent on their desired resettlement location. This mandate is binding and will suffer no parameters. 

The evacuated lands are to be enclosed by walled partition, covering no less than three-hundred square kilometres and encircled by a twenty-five-kilometre security band. Hereafter, the enclosed parcel will be known as The Quadrant, designated by the Sovereignty to be a storing solution for the Magistrate’s undesired.

The Quadrant will be divided into four external Quads and one central Cage, or spare zone. The Quads will house, respectively, the following categories of undesired:

Quad One | The Life-Takers: those who dispatch with life malevolently and/or in purpose.

Quad Two | The Breakers: those who subvert Magistrate law, are traitorous, or who seek

to redefine the Sovereignty’s intent.

Quad Three | The Deviants: those who appropriate sexual dominance with impunity.

Quad Four | The Afflicted: those who are mentally or physically incapable of contributing

to society to the fullest of human ability.

The enclosed Cage will serve at the Sovereignty’s pleasure, heretofore without distinction.

All existing prison and holding facilities will be converted to community-serving establishments befitting respective local requirements and desires. All incarceration will be remanded to the Magistrate. All employment lost will be alternatively fulfilled. All processes of the ordered transition will be swift, unimpeded, and mitigated. All those in contravention will be tried under Magistrative jurisdiction and confined to Quad Two upon its completion.

This decree is obligatory to the full extent of the Reformation Justice Reform Act, 2031 and subject to immediate and eternal requalification by the Sovereignty alone. Full details of each component of this decree can be obtained at regional Magistrate Command Centres.

Your Sovereign recognizes you.

CHAPTER ONE

The ground was a wet slop. Fyfe Kanon’s boots sunk into the sludge along the river’s edge; he was hoping to make less noise as he trailed his targets and the soft muck was quieter than the brittle twigs and loose rocks of the forest floor’s dryer offerings. It had been some time since he’d seen the Sovereign inside the Farm. Myths and stories of legend flung widely from prisoner to prisoner, through the walls of each Quadrant and by hushed fireside chats. Fyfe knew the man wasn’t as frequent a visitor as gossip would have it though. Surely Simian Swallow, the leader of the Magistrate, had far better things to do than spend his free time in the frequent company of his exiles.

Just ahead, a team of seven surrounded Swallow as they advanced through the woods. Four were Contingent Commandants, the elite of the Magistrate’s armed forces, deployed exclusively to protect the Sovereign’s person, chief leadership, and anyone bestowed the luxury by Swallow himself. Their crimson camouflage stood out like a sore thumb against the lush green backdrop of the woods around them. Swallow preferred it this way apparently. He wanted their presence known, their intimidation felt. Over the canopy, Fyfe could hear the subtle hum of a phaser drone. In the event of an emergency, a pulse force-field would surround the Sovereign’s entourage, tasing any biological entity that sought to breach its perimeter with over a million volts of halting shock. Fyfe had seen a Life-Taker try to cross through the field with a spear one time, years before, in a lazy attempt at assassination. The man was charred on the spot, his body literally smoldering as it hit the ground. The Sovereign had laughed like a hyena, positively amused by the martyr’s inefficiency. Fyfe had been inside the Farm for long enough to have seen a lot of things, and most of them didn’t bear second visual.

He ducked under a fallen tree, his right boot sliding on a rock into the icy water that flowed by his side. The rock jostled from its station and cracked against another with a loud clap. He froze. The riverbed he was navigating was two metres below the perched landscape that the group above was traversing. They couldn’t see him from their whisky and Fyfe hoped the water’s torrent was loud enough to mask his unintended clamour. He waited a minute – maybe more, before proceeding, his feet more aware of their surroundings, his mind more in tune.

Peering above the bank’s edge, Fyfe observed the distant party. They were on the hunt. He’d been watching them trail a prisoner for several hours. A slow, lumbering pursuit, made all the easier by the half-starved exhaustion of their prey. Today’s unlucky sod was named Rickard. Rickard had killed several women after kidnapping them and holding them up in his flat. It was a tale that bordered on benign in comparison to some in the Life-Taker Quadrant. Fyfe had run into him once or twice before on his daily travels. Enough to keep his distance. He certainly felt no remorse for the man’s fate, but he wasn’t particularly enthused to see how the Sovereign planned on consolidating him. That was the term they used – the Magistrate officials who controlled the Farm. Killing one of the prisoners inside wasn’t murder, or termination, or whatever else you might call it. It was consolidation. And Rickard was about to succumb to it. He was shirtless and appeared to have lost his shoes. Stumbling through thick brush a few hundred metres ahead of his chasers, his stamina was quickly flickering at the wick. One of the three mystery men with Swallow raised a large digital crossbow – virtually incapable of missing once locked on. The clicking of the trigger released the bow’s slack with a clamorous crack that echoed through the trees. Fyfe’s eyes barely had time to register the arrow before it was sunk into Rickard’s back, collapsing him to the ground like some tired buck, disappearing into the brush at his waist.

A smashing takedown, old boy! Sovereign Swallow bellowed in adulation to his comrade.

One of the four crimson Commandants removed a pistol from his holster and jogged up to where the body had fallen, kneeling down to check for any sign of life. Clean! he called back.

No need for an execution round then, Fyfe surmised. When a kill was ‘dirty’, a Commandant would usually finish the job on the spot. Farm rules were unwritten. At least when it came to hunting. But they were held to fast and with prejudice. Especially when the Sovereign was a part of your party. Fyfe had never gotten used to the idea of live people being tracked through the trees to their demise, like some common game. It was sport on a scale he’d never imagined. The first time he’d seen a hunt, he’d just been incarcerated. He couldn’t believe his eyes as a prominent CEO, well known to the public, took down an inmate with his own bare hands, suffocating the last breaths from his target.  He quickly understood how the compound had gotten its nickname: The People Farm.

Known officially as the Quadrant, the Farm was the Magistrate’s answer to crime and society’s undesirables. It was formed quickly after the Second Coup in the year 2031, nearly two decades prior. Some said it was the Sovereign’s own idea. Nobody knew for sure. When Swallow assumed power, he reformed the European Union, dissolved all internal borders and abolished individual state leadership. He had done what Napoleon and Hitler had both tried and failed do: full continental stewardship. Being a solitary state, the term ‘union’ no longer had meaning. The resulting conglomerate was christened the Magistrate, and after a few quibbles with dissenting generals and former heads of state, Swallow anointed himself Sovereign, vesting all powers in his self and brutally cracking down on crime, obstinacy, and those who sought to subvert his authority. The People Farm was devised to quarantine such subversion. And it had grown to be incredibly successful.

The propagandizing started around 2036.  That’s when the first annual Deduction took place. The Sovereignty – Swallow and his immediate circle – proclaimed the Deduction to be in the spirit of justice. "Safety. Security. Spectacle." they promised. It was a way of rallying support for the compound and its function in Magistrate society, but it was also a naked ploy to draw attention away from the encroaching surveillance state and its various apparatuses of totalitarian control. The public ate it up. The Deduction was a contest. A game. Selected prisoners from each Quad were pitted against one another in a series of phases until two emerged victorious, and were placed in the Cage, the Quadrant’s central dead zone. The winner of the ensuing one-one-one contest was granted their freedom from the Quadrant. It was all live-streamed to every device in the nation. A week-long ordeal of bizarre, fetishist violence. Modern gladiatorial combat repackaged as cheap entertainment. The Deduction grew in popularity. Eventually, certain prisoners were followed by camera drones. Drama was manufactured by a remote control and production team. Weather was fabricated. Obstacles contrived. Twenty-four-seven engagement with society’s refuse. The public couldn’t get enough, nor were they aware of the puppeteering behind it all. It was all taken as fact. Reality. Even the prisoners themselves were in the dark, some of them relishing the attention, building their own ‘celebrity’ followings outside the compound.

Citizens were seemingly incapable of guilt for their indulgence. The inhabitants of the Quadrant were bad and useless people after all. The Life-Takers. The Deviants. The Afflicted. The Breakers. Who cared how they were treated? What difference did it make? They brought it on themselves. It was all karmic retribution. Activist groups popped up from time to time, calling the violence against the disabled and handicapped of the Quadrant abhorrent and vulgar. The Magistrate was quick to disband these groups, their leaders often thrown in the Breaker Quad themselves for ‘disrupting state progression’.

Fyfe tried his best to avoid the camera drones. They’d come online just before he was imprisoned. He’d only come into close proximity with two during his years inside, both already following a prisoner in lockstep. The cameras never deviated from their assigned inmates. Until their inmate died. Then their gimble and lens retracted into their brushed metal enclosures and the drone shot upward into infinity, disappearing over the horizon. He’d often wondered if he was too boring to be followed. If his personality didn’t warrant the polish of robotic entourage. Not that he was bothered by this. It was in his interests to keep out of the spotlight.

He crawled over the river’s bank and kept low behind a cluster of large saplings. The Sovereign was chatting with the man who’d fired the crossbow just moments before as the Commandant by the body returned to the group with a small scanner in hand.

Rickard Boulin. Charged with double homicide. 2047, the officer read. Fyfe had missed it, but the Commandant had just scanned the chip implanted inside the prisoner’s head. They all had chips. They were inset into the back of the neck, where the spinal column reaches the brain, upon entry into the compound. Almost impossible to remove by yourself. And even with help, it rarely ended well. Fyfe had seen an attempted removal once. The ‘surgeon’ paralysed the poor guy. A bear got him a few days later apparently. At least that was the running rumour. Yes, bears had been released into the Farm on purpose. Just for kicks.

The Sovereign smiled. See Franz? All in a day’s work.

The man called Franz folded his crossbow and swung it behind his back, magnets drawing it into place on the back of his utility vest. The group walked over to the body in front of them. Fyfe lunged forward behind a giant tree trunk, trying his best to decipher their conversation.

What’s your timeframe? Swallow began. We’ll have the body processed this evening, but we can expedite delivery if you’d prefer.

Fyfe had heard that term before. Processed. Word in the Farm was that the hunting teams could have their kills embalmed by a secret, state-employed, human taxidermist, to be done with as the hunter desired. Conspiracies swirled in the compound about heads on plaques lining the offices and the homes of the Magistrate elite. Full bodies stuffed and standing at the bases of grand staircases like ancient suits of armour. Skin removed and made into lampshades or luggage or shoes. Ghost stories, Fyfe imagined. Nothing but wild speculation. Still, he didn’t care to ever be the one being processed. Whatever it meant.

Eugenie will be so pleased, Franz said, intensely satisfied with himself. You’ve made us very strong supporters, Simian. Perpetually in your debt.

Please, Swallow responded, raising his hand in front of himself to dismiss the fandom. It’s nothing, I assure you. This is why we do this. I’m just glad you got the full experience. I’ve always believed it more enjoyable when you fall the body yourself. And it’s the least Rickard here could do, to atone for his crimes. May his spirit be grateful for your mercy. Not that you had to be merciful! the Sovereign roared with laughter. He turned to one of his Commandants. Let’s get this wrapp– He cut himself short. He’d just made direct eye contact with Fyfe. A happenstance wayward glance of inconceivable odds.

Fyfe’s body swelled with cementing adrenaline.

Well what have we here, Swallow mused, making a small hand gesture to one of his officers. Seven o’clock, lads. The evergreens.

Two Commandants began to walk toward Fyfe, the forest floor cracking and thumping as their heavy boots closed the distant gap between them. He rose from his hideout, hands raised. There was no value in running. Their weapons could lock onto him, even at full sprint. I’m unarmed, he said pre-emptively, emerging from the saplings.

The Commandants placed his hands in vice-clamps and hauled him back to the rest of the group. Swallow’s thin lips were upturned in a mischievous smirk. And who might you be?

Fyfe, sir. Fyfe Kanon.

One of the Commandants holding his arms took a step backward and scanned the back of his neck. He tells the truth. Murder of a Commandant during a home inspection. 2041.

"A Commandant. Really. How brazen. Whatever made you do that, Fyfe?"

Fyfe’s mind whirred. How could he be so stupid? Why did he get so close? He never did that. He’d been drawn to the Sovereign. So few had ever seen him in real life. Heard his baritone voice boom in their own ears, unfiltered by digital transmission. He looked into the man’s steely grey eyes. He didn’t have a warrant.

Swallow and his two friends stared blankly at Fyfe for a moment, digesting this flat rebuke of Magistrate authority. Suddenly, they all broke into laughter. Maniacal uproar. The Sovereign’s smile collapsed to stony seriousness. You’re a funny man, Fyfe. I like that. Tell me: what was the Commandant looking for?

It doesn’t matter now, Fyfe said, matter-of-factly.

It does, to me. Come on, then…

Fyfe considered his options. There were none. Evidence of my involvement.

In what?

In the Resentment.

Swallow smirked. The Resentment? My, my… You’ve been a naughty boy then, Fyfe. Why would you involve yourself in a thing like that?

I didn’t say I did, Fyfe replied coyly.

Are you suggesting we send Commandants out, rather than simple police, to inquire about such things without basis?

Sounds like we’ve found ourselves a little liar, the Sovereign’s other friend said, speaking for the first time since Fyfe had begun trailing the group.

Swallow chuckled. Oh, I don’t know, Tomasso. Mistakes do happen. Perhaps we got the wrong guy… Did we get the wrong guy, Fyfe? Were you wrongfully suspected?

It doesn’t matter anymore. The crime of murder was conclusive, no matter the other, Fyfe stated coldly, standing his ground.

The Sovereign was amused by this man. Defiant. How did you kill him?

Fyfe tilted his head. I strangled him. With a pair of pants.

Bottoms up. Clever. Refreshing, don’t you both think? Swallow asked, looking to both his associates. You don’t get to have these kinds of conversation outside, I can assure you. He paused. Untie him.

Are you mad? Franz asked, his brow furrowing.

He’s not going to hurt us. Settle down.

The Commandants removed the clamps from Fyfe’s wrists. Fyfe rubbed them slowly, relieved to have his hands free again. His relief was very much awash in confusion. What was going on?

Fyfe, I’m going to give you a running start. Any direction you like.

Excuse me?

I’m going to shoot at you, Fyfe. With this, Swallow explained, reaching under his crimson jacket’s breast and pulling out an old-fashioned revolver from some unseen holster.

Fyfe’s eyes bulged. The gun was an antique. Completely manual. No digital assistance. It would have actual recoil, something long since overcome by technology. Unless Swallow was a disciplined marksman, Fyfe knew he had at least a fighting chance of escape. If he could make it back to the riverbank, he could jump out of the line of sight and float downstream in the swift current. His gaze raised from the weapon to the Sovereign’s eyes. Missing the old days, I see.

We all have our nostalgic vices, Mr. Kanon. Some are more fun than others, Swallow said, cocking his gun. "Why don’t we say… ten seconds? That sounds about fair. One second for each of the fingers you used to drain the life from one of my Commandants… Turn around."

Fyfe did as he was told. The barrel of the Sovereign’s revolver pressed frigidly against the back of this neck. Swallow’s voice burrowed into his brain from behind:

May your spirit be grateful for my mercy, Fyfe. Run!

Fyfe’s feet bolted into action. The earth beneath him gave bounce to his every step as he jived around any obstacle that might have tripped him, dodging trees and rocks, crevices and bushes. The thicket of the brush clawed at his shins as he bounded forward.

Five seconds, Fyfe! Swallow yelled after him, his thunderous call echoing through the forest.

Fyfe tore slightly right, then back leftward. He hoped his zig-zagging would shield him even if it slowed his taking of distance. Just a few more leaps until the ground gave way to the surging waters below. Left, right, left, right. His arms cut through the air at his sides, tight to his body. His breath was growing strenuous already, the mix of panic and exhilaration constricting his lungs.

So long, Fy– the Sovereign’s voice bellowed, cut short for some reason.

The jarring death of vocal tone screeched Fyfe to a footed halt.

He turned around.

The drone above the Sovereign’s group had deployed its pulse force-field. A transparent green fade cascaded over them in a half-dome to the ground. The canopy above began rustling under intense downward drafts. Pine needles and debris from the floor clouded around Fyfe from all directions. He held his hands up to his eyes in an attempt to see the man who had just come up short in his execution. Swallow had his eyes upward, his right arm still outstretched in Fyfe’s general direction. The revolver slowly lowered.

The hovership’s engines ricocheted violently through the trees as it floated gracefully into sight. Fyfe stepped to his right to get a better glimpse through an opening in the foliage. It was a black ship. A general’s aircraft. The Sovereign’s private crafts were all crimson, like his jackets and the uniforms of his Commandants. The lower hatch receded into the ship’s body and a platform lowered to the ground. The platform had its own green force-field around it, merging smoothly into the Dome over the grounded group. A single man stood firmly on its descending floor. Black jacket. Black trousers. Knee-high leather boots. Beret. Crimson epaulettes on his shoulders. Every aspect of his apparel crisp and rigid. His chest glistened with gold and silver distinction. Fyfe ducked behind a large boulder, peeking his head around to see as much as he could. From his position, he wouldn’t be able to hear anything. Nor could he have; the pulse fields blocked out all sound.

The Sovereign put his gun back under his jacket and out of sight as his general lowered before him on what could only be otherwise described as an invisible elevator. The General saluted, taking his beret off and holding it at his chest as he spoke.

My Sovereign. Please excuse my interruption.

Impeccable timing. You just quashed my kill.

My apologies.

No, no, it’s fine, Swallow said, glancing over his general’s shoulder to where he’d last seen Fyfe before the commotion began. Something has happened, I gather.

Resentment combatants have crossed the red zone. They’re within distance of the Luxe Air Station.

The Luxe Air Station was a Magistrate Air Defence outpost in what used to be Western Luxembourg. It served as a centralized air strip for the nation’s various aircraft, specifically its domestic surveillance flights.

How did they get that far north? Swallow asked.

A gap in the radar system. They flew along the Rhine before veering west. Picked them up as they approached Saarbrücken. Five ancient GlideWings and a dozen or so Swallows.

Enough, Swallow held his hand up, tilting his head nearly imperceptibly to his two hunting guests. He turned to Franz and Tomasso. Gentlemen. It’s been an absolute pleasure. We’ll regroup very soon, I promise. My Commandants will see to your exit from the Quadrant and Franz, the body will be in peak condition. Nary a worry, I can confirm, he said with a flourish, stepping onto the platform with his general. They began to rise immediately back toward the hovership above. Oh, and Franz! You’re going to have to teach me how to use that crossbow sometime. Marvelous little creature, that is.

The drone’s pulse shield deactivated the second the hovership’s platform crossed through it on its ascent to the aircraft. Fyfe watched intently as the craft’s bottom hatch closed. The engines thrusted back to full power and shot the ship across the canopy, creating another momentary maelstrom of debris in its wake. The Sovereign’s two friends looked confused and unsure of their next move. The Commandants with them closed rank around the two men and escorted them away from the inmate’s body Franz had taken down. Seconds later, a small flying board hurtled from nowhere and collected the body, strapping itself to the corpse from over top of it, flipping around, its cargo tightly gurney’d in place, and firing off to who-knew-where. Fyfe turned slowly, pressing his back against the giant boulder he’d been hiding behind, and sliding down its side to a seated position. He had to get to the wall. Before the informant left for the night. He rose to his feet, and ran.

–––––

Simian Swallow stood in the hovership’s war room, its transparent glass floor showing the landscape a kilometre below their feet. Four heavily armed GlideWings – compact fighter jets – straddled the hovership: one below and one above, with one more on each side. He could see the top of the pilot’s helmet in the plane beneath them. He wondered if the young man inside it had trained at the Luxe Air Station. If nothing else, he’d surely been there before. Swallow’s lips pursed as he turned back to his general’s ramblings.

General Armen Van Stüsen had been with the Sovereign from day one. It was he who had coordinated the Second Coup, elevating Swallow to power. They had been ranking officials in the European Union’s central leadership as the Union disintegrated amongst increased secession and mounting immigration and terrorism conflict. Van Stüsen had been the Supreme Allied Commander of the North Atlantic Alliance. Swallow had been the Chairman of the last European Union Military Committee. Together, they subdued the clashes and intergovernmental factionalism that had been tearing the Union apart and united enough of the NATO controlled European military departments to neutralize any counterinsurgency and usurp control from the continent’s respective national leaders. Swallow already knew what his comrade was saying so his focus on the pilot beneath them rather than the words coming out of Van Stüsen’s mouth was hardly unusual.

… why they’ll be headed off from the south. I have all six of the Luxe infantries on the ground with our mobile suppression tea–

Where did they get a dozen Swallows? Swallow interrupted, removing his black leather hunting gloves and tossing them on the touchscreen table separating the two men. The various half-dozen commanding officers seated around the table sat up in their chairs at their Sovereign’s incision.

The General looked up from his attack plans, a small hologram of a missile defense system shooting its tiny digital payload a few inches over the table’s surface on loop. He gulped. We believe they may have retrofitted downed crafts from the Second Coup. The Battle of Milan.

The Sovereign took a deep breath, his inhalation audible through his deviated septum, the result of a broken nose he’d suffered in a fist-to-cuff with the former president of Serbia. Have we neglected any other gratis junkyards around the Alps for them to scavenge? he asked brutally.

The Second Coup left a lot of mechanical carnage, my Sovereign. It has never been feasible to go and collect it all, especially from nuclear waste zones like northern Italy.

Swallow sighed. It was not lost on him that the planes he was complaining about the Resentment having in their arsenal were so named after himself. When the German Luftwaffe designed a fusion-powered single-passenger craft, it had been Swallow who signed off on the final funding for the project. The former Chancellor returned the favour by naming it after the man who had signed the cheque. Swallows were nothing more than highly specialized wing-suits, no larger than a small car. They had highly accurate artillery and payload systems and were all but impossible to see from the ground if flown above two kilometres. The irony of something named after him being used to disrupt his regime was a thorn in his side. Cumulative payload? he asked, regarding the incoming Resentment fleet.

Enough to level the Luxe Air Station. But we have the advantage. As of now, there’s no way for them to know for sure we’ve spotted them. They’re flying low over uninhabited territory. The commanders and I recommend that we move some heavy cloud into their airspace. Sock them in. Then target them from the ground. The last time we engaged with Resentment pilots by air, we ended up chasing them over Munich. We can’t have them over metropolitan areas. We’ll be high above Frankfurt in less than ten minutes. By then, these aircraft will in place to shoot down. Mercy willing, one or more of the pilots survive, and we can hover in to collect for immediate interrogation.

No, Swallow stated.

I’m sorry, sir? Van Stüsen questioned, his commanders equally as confused as himself.

Swallow was looking past his feet again at the helmet of the pilot below them. Let them destroy Luxe.

My Sovereign…

Armen. Let them destroy it.

I don’t understand, Simian.

You said the infantries are off the Station?

Yes. They’ve all been deployed along the Resentment flight path.

Tell them to stand down. Evacuate any remaining personnel and critical assets from the Station.

They have enough payload to level it, sir, one of the commanding officers spoke up, out of turn.

Swallow looked up from the transparent floor, meeting eyes with the man who spoke.

Then we will take the hit and smile. Most of Luxe’s strategic value lies in the underground hangars. That airstrip’s only function is for our surveillance drones. They can takeoff from anywhere. And the surface buildings are barracks and low-asset administration facilities. What do we need on the ground, commander? Nothing. So unless these Resentment craft have anything that can damage our subterranean facilities, let them have their victory, and let’s see where they fly to next.

And if they head for an urban centre… Van Stüsen jumped back in.

Then we swat them out of the sky like the mosquitos they are. The Resentment isn’t stupid. They know there’s nothing to destroy at Luxe that would advantage their cause. So this is a ploy. A distraction. And I want to know from what.

It had been a long time since Swallow sensed any semblance of strategy in a Resentment attack. They had been perpetrating small scale public attacks forever. Kidnapping mid-level Magistrate bureaucrats, targeting government facilities with daring break-in and data swipes, hijacking broadcast airwaves to flash their message of insurgence to the masses. These were classic rebel outbursts. Predictable and expected. But they’d been increasing their antics as of late. The past few months had been somewhat turbulent for the Sovereignty. The public was growing tired of increased public violence and protests by Resentment sympathizers. The retaliative crackdown wasn’t warmly received either. The Sovereignty hoped that the upcoming Deduction matches would focus the public’s attention elsewhere while they worked out the kinks of these increasingly frequent disturbances. Closing in on an Air Defence outpost in broad daylight was different though. It was surgical. Pointed. Purposeful. What were they doing?

The General put down a radio. The Luxe is barren, sir. Most of the drones are out on routine flights so there wasn’t much to evacuate.

Good. Commanders. Ready your teams. We will have no mistakes today.

–––––

Fyfe reached the wall just as darkness fell over the Quadrant. His legs burned from the uphill journey. The coolness of twilight immediately took hold of his sweat-covered body, shivering him into discomfort. The fifteen-metre concrete wall in front of him shone a muted grey in what little moonlight pierced through the clouds above. He ran his hand along the surface just off the ground. He could never quite pinpoint it by sight in this kind of light. Better to let his fingers do the work. The tiny hole cupped his index finger and he dropped to his knees, positioning his mouth as close to the hole as he could. No greater in diameter than a pen, the hole went all the way through the wall’s two-metre width, creating a miniscule channel of communication with those on the other side in the Breakers’ Quad. Fyfe looked around. There was no way to know if he was being watched by a fellow prisoner or drone. He always took it on faith that someone was listening or watching no matter where he was in the Quadrant, so there was no reason to be overly pedantic in worry.

Am I too late? he asked into the hole.

Under the wire, Fyfe, a muffled voice responded seconds later. What do you have?

Tell him there are birds in the air.

CHAPTER TWO

Who authorized this?

We need to reconsider the offensive. It’s not going to work like this.

"Reconsider? How many times do we have to reconsider?"

If it were that simple, we’d have done this months ago.

She’s right. There’s no point mulling over our options now.

How have we launched without a nominee? This is absurd!

We’ve been over this. We can’t just nominate someone. It has to be a volunteer. We all know the stakes at play.

Can someone explain to me again where the planes will land?

Is the plant ready on their end? Have we even confirmed that?

Isn’t this just a grand suicide mission anyhow?

What about the access point? Nobody has figured that out yet! We have to choose an access point! 

We don’t have time for this, dammit! Dresden Thiel shouted, slamming his fist against the table before him. He eyed up the dozen or so others staring back to him at the head of the room.

I agree, a stout fellow with a white moustache concurred. The mission is already underway. We need to insert our infiltrator now.

Harris is right, Dresden said. The veins in his forehead receded as he calmed himself. None of the fine-tuning matters at this point until we know who’s going in. I gave the word go. I was tired of all of this bickering. It was getting us nowhere. But it’s been done. Now let’s pick up the pieces and stay on track here."

The Resentment’s Command Council were gathered in their war room, high in the Swiss Alps. The rebel group had forged dozens of underground bases inside the mountains themselves. Old train tunnels. Ancient war bunkers. Natural caves. The desolate landscape and hostile weather, coupled with the area’s hazardous, post-nuclear fallout afforded them just enough security to distance the Magistrate’s forces. Dresden Thiel had been the de facto leader of the Resentment movement since its former leader had been executed on live broadcast after breaking into the Sovereign Palace. Swallow slit his throat for all to see and hanged the body from the Arc de Triomphe. Dresden had stepped into his predecessor’s boots with a mess on his hands. Their movement was in tatters, faction against faction. It had taken him nearly a decade, but he’d finally consolidated all sides and the Resentment was newly unified and prepared to launch their cause again. He’d overseen the systematic ramping up of small-scale attacks across the Magistrate. Tediously, the Resentment had been building a culture of second guessing and suspicion amongst the nation’s general population. People were starting to question the Sovereignty’s leadership and authority. Protests whipped up more frequently and several prominent cultural personalities had begun to speak out on certain injustices. The time had come to take advantage of this frenzy, to counterstrike the Magistrate’s impunity. An excruciatingly planned mission had been in the works for nearly a year. The council was losing its nerve though. Dresden had overridden them. In the heat of the moment, and with the Deduction looming, there was no better time, even if the mission wasn’t completely fleshed out. It was then or never. He’d ordered the majority of their air power to begin.

You’ve put us all at risk, Dresden. The entire movement!

We’re not ready for this yet!

Hear him out at least – perhaps he has a point.

They’ll fire them down before they even get to their target. That flight path is crazy!

Dresden gritted his teeth together. Please! he said, voice raised. Come together here. We have it in our power to begin the world over again. Isn’t that what we’ve always said? Isn’t that why we’ve commandeered those words? Because we believe in our cause? I’m asking you to believe.

"You’re going to get those pilots’ throats slit in the streets! And where will he hang their bodies from? Where!"

Calm down, Maria. Swallow is sadistic but he’s at least unpredictable. He’d at least come up with another way to make an example of them.

Maria stood from her seat. What did you just say?

I’m saying you’re being overdramatic. We can sort this!

Harris piped in. Both of you – shut up. Now is not the time to be turning on–

I’ll go! a voice rattled loudly from the doorway.

The whole room swiveled in their chairs, a collective squeal of ungreased metal.

A young woman walked in, taking the only empty seat left. She clasped her hands in front of her on the tabletop. I’ll go, she repeated, calmly. Confidently.

Tika, there are more able candidates, Harris said, trying hard to be as gentle with his words as possible.

And where exactly are they, Harris? I don’t see them here, do you?

Harris stared back blankly.

I have the technical know-how. I have the mission background from being on council. And most importantly, I have a way in. Tika stated.

Several audible inhalations of surprise danced off the room’s jagged stone walls.

What does that mean, Maria asked under her breath.

It means I have a contact. Someone who can get me inside. No equipment. No ground teams needing accounting for. None of the resources that our other plans entail.

Dresden bit his tongue. Literally. Tika Séko was the daughter of the Resentment’s former leader. When he’d been killed, Dresden had taken her under his wing and raised her as his own. She was a skilled engineer and pilot. A meticulous strategist. She’d led their efforts to salvage old military transport and refurbish them. They’d amassed a small cavalry of aircraft, tanks, hovercrafts and the like under her direction. She nearly single-handedly rehabilitated their forces after her father’s last attack had decimated their resources. He’d suspected she might volunteer for the infiltration component of their new plan but he’d hoped against it.

Where have you been? one of the councilwomen asked Tika.

I was seeing our fleet off, Dima.