Victims of the State: The Underground

By Chad Warwick

Boredom, drudgery, with an occasional excitement brought about by food shortages or blackouts; the illnesses of a dying society devoid of imagination, inventiveness, even competence. At the apex of its soulless construct sit the powerful, cunningly wrestling for position, seeking control over a people who no longer care who controls their lives. And there is no Atlantis, waiting in the wings to provide guidance for those who have been slowly robbed of their will to create, to invent, to prove their competence. The soul of the individual has been lost to the tyranny of the group. The heart of our once great nation is awash in a sea of socialist propaganda decrying individualism as selfish and egotistical.

But something has awakened in the ashes of our civilization. It is every bit as cunning as the power hungry whose socialist agenda created this miasma, and it has grown in spite of their efforts to crush it. Born with no lust for power, no desire for the greater good, and no ism to offer, it has, nevertheless, grown at an alarming rate, or perhaps not alarming. If the individual is ever to be freed from the yoke of the lying, manipulative control of socialism, perhaps the answer is in the alarming growth of that thing, that black market, that underground which promises to free the VICTIMS OF THE STATE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781684988365

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1: The Beginnings

Chapter 2: Sara

Chapter 3: Suz Alone

Chapter 4: The Underground

Chapter 5: Art

Chapter 6: Suz Mastering Manipulation

Chapter 7: The Team

Chapter 8: Yvette

Chapter 9: Nananda

Chapter 10: Kat

Chapter 11: Nananda and Sara

Chapter 12: Underground Kat

Chapter 13: Plans and Explanations

Chapter 14: Assignment Bill

Chapter 15: A Road of Regrets

Chapter 16: Derrick

Chapter 17: In Search of Kat

Chapter 18: Revelation

Chapter 19: Darya

Chapter 20: Penny's Rant

Chapter 21: The Body Heist

Chapter 22: A Bit of Bill's Bio and a Hello to Chicago

Chapter 23: Saving Books

Chapter 24: Derrick Dodges Arrest

Chapter 25: Molly and Bill

Chapter 26: Lalla

Chapter 27: Gathy

Chapter 28: Carpets?

Chapter 29: Telescopes

Chapter 30: Nancy Plots and Connie Plans

Chapter 31: A Staircase Encounter

Chapter 32: Brazil and Bauxite

Chapter 33: Discord

Chapter 34: The Honest Bureaucrat

Chapter 35: Nancy Learns the Truth

Chapter 36: The Genius of Nate and Suz

Chapter 37: Of Belt and Leather

Chapter 38: Gathy Exposed

Chapter 39: Lalla's Tabloid

Chapter 40: Bill: Plans, Dilemmas, and Emotional Outbursts

Chapter 41: The Bait Is Taken

Chapter 42: Bill's Other Revelation

Chapter 43: Bill's Son Bill (Guillermo)

Chapter 44: The Assault and the Escape

Chapter 45: Getting the Story

Chapter 46: Designing Women

Chapter 47: Compromises

Chapter 48: Governors' Demise

Chapter 49: Haidar and Hassan

Chapter 50: Complications

Chapter 51: Amirah

Chapter 52: A Brief Midnight Chat

Chapter 53: Early Morning Rendezvous

Chapter 54: Training

Chapter 55: About Dentists and Black Boxes

Chapter 56: Magnus's Proposal

Chapter 57: The Tools and the Terencio

Chapter 58: At the Foot of the Andes

Chapter 59: Bigwigs and Black Boxes

Chapter 60: Freeing Derrick

Chapter 61: The Not-So-Successful Freeing of Derrick

Chapter 62: Leaving Bilbao

Chapter 63: Best Agents

Chapter 64: Arrests and Retrainings

Chapter 65: Capture

Chapter 66: Magnus the Magnificent

Chapter 67: The Miracles of Hassan

Chapter 68: Retribution

Chapter 69: Clever Molly

Chapter 70: Jarvis Gets the Hook

Chapter 71: Amirah Has to Wait

Chapter 72: Under New Management

Chapter 73: The Road

Chapter 74: New Alignments

Chapter 75: The Loose Cannon

About the Author

cover.jpg

Victims of the State: The Underground

Chad Warwick

Copyright © 2023 Chad Warwick

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-68498-835-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68498-836-5 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

The Beginnings

Yes, I am Conrad. Connie removed his billfold and displayed an identification card that had been renewed just two weeks before.

Mr. Conrad. The State appreciates your continued service as a worker. You have performed in both categories one and three and acquitted yourself effectively in both categories. We do not understand your current inability to work. The processing machine ran a cursory check of his vitals and continued. What has caused you to flounder in your work efforts when you were so effective only recently?

I have an idea that might reduce the amount of work effort that I need to engage in. I have tried to share that idea with the State, but no one will listen to it. I'm not only doing this for myself. A number of people might benefit from a reduction in work effort if my idea were used.

The State does not see the efficacy of reducing the burden of work at this time. We need to maintain the current workload. Tampering with the current workload is inappropriate, Mr. Conrad.

I'm not Mr. Conrad. My name is Conrad Emerson Carson. I am Mr. Carson.

The AI hesitated for a moment. Do you wish to have the same discussion as Mr. Carson?

Will I get a different answer? Conrad asked testily.

You will not get a different answer, Mr. Carson. Ideas that reduce workload are dangerous to the proper functioning of the categories. You are a category three, subcategory MO, which is quite an achievement for someone your age. Your efforts have made it possible for you to receive a home in Waterton and a waiver for a third child. How could the State determine the degree of effort you put into your work if you suddenly implemented time-saving ideas? It will not do, Mr. Carson.

Connie turned his head away so that the station couldn't see his frustration. It was a vain attempt to cover up his anger. The station would operate until he stepped completely off the platform, and there were cameras all around the platform. He would be seen by one of the cameras, just not as clearly.

I would like to leave now, Connie said to the station.

Fine, the station replied.

Connie stepped down. A uny* hopped up behind him. Connie walked away quickly before he could hear the inane requests that he thought the uny would make.

Connie thought of that encounter as he leafed through one of his companies' quarterly report. That encounter happened fourteen years ago. It had been the last effort in a series of attempts on Connie's part to advance his ideas for improving productivity in the factory. The consequences of his efforts were completely out of proportion to the effort itself.

Two nights after Connie's brief encounter with the voice in the kiosk, he received a call from the Department of Reeducation and Training. He was to report to work at the graveyard shift of a highway reconstruction team working on I-95. Nancy was livid when she heard the news. Why had he continued to push his ideas when the State was clearly not interested? Why had he left a paper trail that the State could use against him the rest of his life every time he wanted to get a raise? She couldn't believe that Connie could be so stupid.

Of course, Connie reported to work the next day and to the graveyard shift at night. That lasted only one night. Connie avoided the second night of work and dodged the even greater headache of six weeks of reeducation. Nancy's family was very good at pulling strings.

Connie was disillusioned by everything that had happened to him, but the extremity of the reaction to his suggestions generated another feeling in his gut. It was disgust. He couldn't share that feeling with Nancy. She was part of what caused the disgust. So he opened up to his best friend and compatriot at work, Bill Westwood. That had the possibility of becoming a second major mistake. Instead, it became a watershed moment in Connie's life.

Bill took chances. Bill liked to study history. Doing that was chancy in itself. But old things interested Bill, so he accepted the risk of someone finding an old biography or textbook at his home. Bill didn't stay up nights worrying about whether he had violated the latest State regulations. He was already involved in things that could easily land him in reeducation, but he continued to do them and to tell Connie about them.

Perhaps that was why Connie felt comfortable talking with Bill, and perhaps that was why they both found it so easy to concoct the hoax. It was important that the hoax occur at the right time. If it happened too close to Connie's would-be reeducation, it might get lost among the negative reports of Connie's insubordinate behavior. If it happened too much later in time, Connie might have already received a demotion. The timing was everything, and Bill chose just the right time.

Connie still smiled when he thought of Bill. Bill was also the name of Connie's father. Connie's mother had called his father a rascal. To Connie's way of thinking, both Bills were rascals. Connie had worked beside friend Bill Westwood as an MM1. Bill Westwood said he understood the State. He could mimic the kiosk voices perfectly, and he needed little encouragement to do so. As Bill's part in the hoax, he hid behind a station box. Connie approached the box along with a number of his friends. Connie was in the know, but he pretended not to be. When Connie stepped on the platform, Bill said in his most sympathetic voice that Connie had been designated a uny. In spite of being aware of the joke, Connie still felt a horrible sensation when he heard the voice telling him of his dismissal from the ranks of the employed. Because of this and because Connie had a flare for the dramatic anyway, he appeared to take the news very hard. He was rewarded for his performance.

It wasn't long after that Bill was fired. Don't worry, Connie, he said. I don't mind being a uny. I've got a lot to do, and this job gets in the way. Just remember never to admit to anyone that you knew what we were up to. If you don't admit it, you will get a raise instead of a demotion. They will think you were wronged. The only way for the State to handle the situation is to dismiss me and give you a raise.

But I haven't earned a raise. I haven't been here for the allotted time for a raise.

You were wronged, and the State will put it right. It gives them a boost to be shown to have righted a wrong. Besides, you know this plant better than anyone three ranks up. Bill hesitated for a moment before he spoke further. When he continued, it was in a barely perceptible tone. Just remember to call on me if you need to leave all this behind. I may know where there are refuges by then. Connie bet that Bill already knew of the hideaways back then. He certainly did now.

*****

Home for Connie for the last sixteen years had been Waterton. He had grown up a hundred miles from his current home but had gone to school a half a continent away. Now he was close enough to his childhood home that he could visit his foster mother if he pleased.** His vehicle could cross that distance in two hours on little more than five gallons of gas. His access to his father had been cut short years ago because of his father's apparent unwillingness to see him. Both parents were unys, though his mother had been on the part-time payroll of a State dressmaking company. His father lived better than other unys—a lot better. How he did so, Connie hadn't a clue. He knew his father used the black market to earn a bit of extra money now and then. Even so, Connie could never figure out how he did so well. Connie's father had been shot twice. The last time, he got stitched up in ER and never did go to see a doctor afterward. Because of that incident, Connie speculated that his father was involved in some sort of illegal activity that was more dangerous than part-time black market sales. Eventually Connie's father did show some interest in his son.

By then, however, Connie had already chosen his own role in life. It conflicted with his father's interests. But that didn't bother him at the time. Connie disliked his father for such a long time that his father's opinions were of little interest to Connie. Without saying so, his mother had communicated her anger at having been involved with his father, a man who had shown no interest in protecting her or her son. There was a certain look she had that spoke volumes about her feelings toward his father. Sometimes in sheer desperation, a young Connie would proclaim, I love you, just to wash away that look for a moment, but it didn't last. It was his mother's attitude that drove Connie's own ambitions for a while. Perhaps it was the reason Connie decided that he wanted a successful family life. Connie had a wife, a house, and three children of his own; but success of the sort he had pursued had its drawbacks. In the years that followed, Connie found out exactly why his father had kept his distance. That knowledge had provided the motive for a slight deviation in Connie's personal objectives. Fortune had smiled on Conrad Carson, but not the way everyone might imagine.

Connie's youngest child, Susie—or Suz, was only ten years old now and was already talking about taking doctrine and being a Statist. There is no end to the possibilities if you truly believe, she told him. She was repeating the primary motivation. It was followed by Success within the State is measured by principle and intellect and Only the State confers true power restricted by principle. Neither Bill would want to know that Suz was planning to become part of the State apparatus. They would consider her a traitor for doing so, and they would consider Connie a traitor for allowing it. But it was a pathway to success, and Connie couldn't see any reason to argue with a child at age ten. Besides, it might be misinterpreted by her teachers at school if her parents argued against taking doctrine.

Connie didn't really expect her to remain a Statist. In spite of her proclivity toward tattling on everyone she knew, Suz possessed a solid set of principles that would soon conflict with those of the State. He only hoped that she wouldn't commit to something permanent. He didn't want a spy in his house. There was too much that couldn't be explained to someone who really wanted to know.

Connie closed the folio of the quarterly report he had been glancing at and locked it in his briefcase. He was close to home, and this report wasn't the sort of report he would want to grant access to the prying eyes of Suz or his wife, Nancy. Connie arrived home late. He barely made that last train home, and he arrived home to a lukewarm supper and a frosty reception. You missed Art's ball game, his wife told him as he walked in. You told us you were going to try to make it home for the ball game. Connie's wife had proven to be far less than what he had expected when they were married. She was still attractive. That she made certain of despite the effects of having three children within four years.

But Nancy had become the social gadfly of the neighborhood; a skill set that she was trying to apply to Connie's workplace. It was common knowledge that anyone who wanted to meet anyone could do so at the Carsons' house. Nancy saw to that. If there was social climbing to be done, Nancy had the ladder. Which was why Art was in the Whiffleball League.

Connie didn't understand her unending desire to climb. He had made it to the position of COO of the plant. There was only one grade above that, and frankly, Connie didn't want to climb up to it. He had no doubt that he could be more effective than the current CEO, but his current position gave him more freedom, and that he desperately needed. Connie was doing something inappropriate on the side.

Connie tried to ignore his wife's running commentary about what happened during the Whiffle ball game. Not that she paid any attention to the game. It was entirely gossip and what she could do with the gossip. The one-sided conversation suited Connie. He had no interest in discovering what happened in the Whiffle Ball League. The whole idea disgusted Connie. He had lived among the unys during the early years with his mother. It was not his favorite environment, but at least they played baseball and football and soccer and grundge. Connie could remember the sting of the baseball the first time it struck his glove. As a shortstop, you had to catch the ball no matter how much it stung your hand. Connie had been little—too little for football or basketball. But he had been quick, and after the first couple of stinging catches, he had mastered the skill of getting his glove on the ball. What his son was playing wasn't baseball. It was a game invented by pampering mothers and litigious defense attorneys. It was a game where the team that came in second to last got a trophy as large as the first-place team and a game where all the trophies were for participation. From what Connie had seen, there was little participation in the actual game. It was more an opportunity to meet up with those in the same socioeconomic strata or, in the case of his wife, one stratum farther up.

Not infrequently Art found himself being snubbed by those who were on the next level up. Connie had heard this happen periodically. In the first few instances, Connie had tried to help Art by showing his son that there were things that he could do, books that he could read, and adventures that the whole family could take that would get his mind off of the snub. It wasn't the end of the world, Connie would say, and Art would smile and ignore him. Then Art would get back at the clique that snubbed him, or he would organize a clique of his own more secretive and select than the one that snubbed him. Then Connie realized that Art was his mother's son, and a sort of bittersweet melancholy would take the place of the love that Connie wanted to show his son.

Older than Suz and Art was Connie's first child, Kat. Nancy didn't think of her as older. She was quiet and moody. Nancy tried to work with her for the first few years of her life and then turned to Suz and Art when it was obvious that Kat would not be easy to train as a ladder climber. Kat had turned to Connie for support and found it. Kat was a gifted musician, singing or at the keyboard. None of what she performed ever left Connie's study. Nor for a long while did Kat's art, which showed a gift exceeding anything Connie could remember from his college days. Nancy would never hear Kat's music. Kat made certain of that. If Nancy did, she would have seized upon it immediately as an opportunity to gain fame for her daughter and for herself. Nancy never saw any of Kat's art for entirely different reasons. It had a satirical twist to it that might make a social climber like Nancy cringe—if she understood it, that is.

Recently Kat had been able to sell some songs over the Internet under the name R. T. Tugger. Tonight she waited until Connie could break away from the dinner table and Nancy's blow-by-blow description of the who's who that had attended the ball game. Then she asked her father to listen to her music.

She never once mentioned the score of the game or if Art had hit the ball or made a catch in the outfield, Connie told Kat. Kat shook her head slightly and then smiled. Of course, Kat doesn't want to talk about Art and his ball game, Connie thought. She was young and self-centered for all of her silence. That was as it should be. She was young and creative. She wanted to share her creation. She turned to her keyboard and began to play, changing dynamics periodically as the theme progressed. When she had finished, she sat back and stared at six pages of four-part dissonance. I was frustrated, Kat said finally. I put this together so that the women's voices could carry a series of progressive chords that would eventually overwhelm the first theme of the piece and transplant it with their own. I thought my teachers would like it. Kat looked at the floor for a moment and then back at her composition. Connie looked for tears. Kat didn't show any sign of wanting to cry. She had passed that milestone years ago. She smirked in a way that showed the level of cynicism that she had already attained at the age of fourteen. All of my teachers but one said that it was good work. All my teachers but one said that everybody's work was good. Kids who barely know the keyboard did good work.

And the one teacher?

She said I was showing off. She said that everybody in the class is good at something, and it didn't do for me to show off when they were trying to do what I was best at. Connie knew what Kat was going through. She had always been unwilling to share her creations with the world. Maybe they weren't as good as she thought. Maybe others wouldn't understand them. Kat had all the concerns and misgivings that define genius in its youth. Those were the sort of feelings that teachers ought to have recognized. There ought to have been some empathy there, especially since they could see that Kat was gifted. Instead, the reaction of her teachers proved to Kat that she wasn't in a world where creativity had a place. At most it kept a foothold where it was needed to advance the agenda of the State. You could always gain some degree of acceptance by writing inspiring songs in praise of the doctrine or the State, but that meant a sellout. Kat would never do that.

Connie lay back and closed his eyes. Kat's composition ended with a diminuendo that laced two themes together in a makeshift harmony. She cradled the score in her arm and then placed it in her music files. Dad, is it good? Is what I have written good? Connie wanted to approach her question intelligently. He loved the elaborately synthesized musical style that Kat had developed. He was amazed at her fluency in the use of sound, at her visceral aggressive rhythms, at her new world jazz improvisation. At times he wondered if she was writing for him. He wondered if the music had the sort of appeal that could be sold to the outside world. So far, it had. The hammienet*** was the one last best impartial judge of musical talent, and R. T. Tugger was earning a following there.

Connie listened to the piece three times. It took that long to notice the subtle nuances that made the whole composition edgy, unsettling. He watched Kat as she quietly marked her copy. It had to be perfect for her to release it to her friends on the hammienet. The school could have the rough copy. As they had already proven, they had no interest in the quality of her work. But those people on the hammienet were golden. They would be critical, objective. They would actually care how it sounded.

It's wonderful, Connie said. You expected me to say that, though.

Yes.

Sometimes I can't believe you are just fourteen years old. You've captured feelings in that piece that most adults never experience. It makes my life seem shallow when I think of the depth of feeling you have plumbed to write something like that. Connie gave Kat a hug and kissed her forehead. She smiled a melancholy smile that spoke volumes about her awareness of the world she was in and her place in it. Was there ever an era that she could call hers? Connie wondered.

If Kat's artistry with composition was exceptional, her skills with the stylus were phenomenal. Connie knew that she was already being sought after by the State. He knew that her talents would be bent and twisted like a pretzel as soon as she became a State-supported prodigy. He knew that she would hate that. He knew that the State was beginning to show interest in her work. All it needed was for Nancy to discover the State's interest; she would make it her first priority to bring Kat and the State together. Nancy was a perfectly ambitious woman with little in the way of ethical standards to inhibit her. Connie knew that Kat would hate being forced to provide artistic propaganda for the State because he knew his daughter. He didn't know what she would do if the State tried to force her edgy peg into their round hole. He didn't really want to know yet.

*****

Bill wasn't fooled by the traffic on his street. Certain signs were missing. The rubberball court was full of players, but they lacked any level of enthusiasm. Bill waited for Mrs. Bell to put the dog in the backyard. It was six o'clock, then five after, then ten after. After fifteen minutes, Bill was convinced. Althea Bell always put the dog out by six. Her husband's car was in the driveway, and the kids' bikes were in the driveway. They had to be home.

Bill winced like a man in pain. The site he saw wasn't possible under normal circumstances. The children were always home before their dad. Their bikes couldn't be parked behind his car unless they purposefully came outside to move them into that position as a sign. Bill hadn't seen the bikes move since he had arrived. It had to be the family telling him that the State was there, that they wouldn't be allowed to leave with him because the State was there waiting for him. He backed away from his vantage point, hoping that no one had seen him yet. He wasn't at all certain that was true. He had ways of avoiding apprehension, but that depended upon his being able to withdraw to his first place of refuge without being caught.

No one had exited the house. That was good. If they knew he had seen them, they would abandon any pretense of normalcy so that they could use every agent to catch him. The garden in the house behind him provided some cover. After that, he was on his own. He approached the garden carefully. What provided cover for him could provide cover for an agent. As he moved into the evergreens, he felt a hand reach for him. He was too far away for the hand to grab his arm or even his clothing. The agent stepped out to get a firm grip. Bill clubbed him over the head.

All he could do was hope that the agent hadn't been seriously hurt. Bill was practiced at swinging that club, but the adrenaline was flowing, and he might have used more force than necessary. Of course, whatever injury the agent sustained would be embellished. Something on the agent's wrist beeped. P4, are you there? a voice asked. Bill backed away. They would ask once more before they sent the whole crew out to see what was wrong. Bill didn't have much time.

Bill hastened through the remainder of the garden. He would have to rely on speed now. At the opening at the opposite end of the garden, he saw several young men still playing pickup rubberball. He popped out at a different point in the garden and hastened across the street. The players darted after him. Bill started running. One, two, three houses and a right turn brought him into a backyard with a high chain-link fence. Bill climbed it like a monkey. The boys who had followed him into the yard were slow to attempt to climb over a thirteen-foot fence that didn't look all that structurally sound. A short distance farther, Bill came to an old detached garage. He opened the side door. Inside, carefully hidden, was a motorcycle. Bill couldn't use it to travel any great distance. The agents would have copters in the air in no time, and they would spot him traveling in the illegal vehicle. But he only needed it for a mile or so. The first-stage refuge was there, and it would be empty. Bill could use the refuge to avoid the agents. He only hoped that he didn't jeopardize the integrity of the refuge.

Bill thought these things as he simultaneously pushed the starter button on the motorcycle and the garage door opener. The door opened rapidly, but even so, Bill had to duck as he exited the garage. As soon as he was out, it closed with a bang. Nothing outside that garage could open the garage door, and that was the only way to follow Bill, unless his pursuers who had climbed the fence climbed back again or forced their way into the adjacent house or climbed the even more intimidating fence that ran from house to garage. Of course, they wouldn't find anyone inside the house or anyone in the neighborhood who knew who rented the place. The owners were elderly, category Rs who lived in Florida, and they did all of their renting through government-approved realty firms. There couldn't possibly be any duplicity there.

Bill did a bit of zigzagging through the neighborhood before he found Forest Avenue and the refuge. His phone screen texted him. Copters in the air. Bill eased the bike into a driveway and under a rapidly opening garage door. As soon as he entered, the door closed. The floor beneath him lowered, quickly at first and then more slowly. Bill pulled his bike off the concrete slab, punched the button that raised the floor back up, and then exited through an open door into a corridor that ran for some distance before it arrived at another doorway. There he parked the bike and prepared to punch up the drop button for another garage floor, the one for the house immediately behind the garage he had just left.

Wait, Bill, a voice called out behind him. That floor has to be dropped manually.

Dawn. Bill turned in time to see her still running down the corridor behind him. You're not supposed to be helping me…or anybody else for that matter.

I volunteered. The woman who approached him was beautiful but with enough of a raw-boned appearance to be unattractive to some men. Those were the sort of men Bill could not understand. His early infatuation with her had disappeared. They had worked together too often for him to keep sighing every time he saw her. But that didn't stop him from believing that she was the epitome of beauty. That was a good thing. For someone with Bill's level of arrogance, being swept off his feet and somewhat unsure of himself was one of the few ways of keeping him alive until wisdom took over.

Bill had been a part of the international arm of the underground. It was a branch of the underground that trained aggressiveness and cunning into its participants. But those qualities, which Bill had readily adapted to, were far less important and could even be dangerous in the escape branch of the underground.

Dawn had been chosen to mentor Bill but to do it in a way that avoided making it look like a teacher-pupil arrangement. Bill is probably just as skilled in what was his field of endeavor as you are in yours. It would be hard for him to adjust to being trained, even if he knew it was necessary.

But that meant she couldn't pull rank on the new volunteer; and that, in turn, required her to come up with some other way of redirecting his efforts toward more cautious alternatives. The best way—in fact the only way—she could guide him was to partner with him in executing escapes. What she found was that she was dealing with an intellect that was so facile and so adaptive that she frequently had difficulty keeping up with it. Even so, he would sometimes become so dismissive of her advice that he came dangerously close to risking a mission. It was only slowly and with much patience that she managed to turn him to her way of thinking. In the end, it was her level of commitment to her work that won Bill over. A commitment such as hers had to come with a level of understanding of what had been tried and would work and what had failed and would not work.

There were two other consequences of Bill and Dawn working so closely together. The most evident was their rate of success in accomplishing the most unlikely escapes. Due in part to Bill's ideas and in part to the exacting nature of Dawn's preparation, they were amazingly successful in freeing very public figures right from under the noses of their S agent captors. The second and far less evident consequence was that Dawn discovered she had fallen in love with her subject.

As soon as she fully realized the extent of her feelings, Dawn tried to put up barriers to her relationship with Bill. She was supposed to be his instructor, not his lover. All through her own training, she had been told that the two were mutually exclusive. Don't get too close to your student was emblazoned in her brain. Now, however, she wasn't so certain about the efficacy of that maxim. Bill had become more cautious under her tutelage, and she had gained in skill by adopting his more resolute approach to solving problems. In the end, Dawn decided to take a page from Bill's book, opting to admit her assignment had been to teach, even manage, not just to work with him.

Bill didn't appear to be hurt by her admission, but she could sense anxiety in his features. I'm sorry, please forgive me, she added when she saw his first reaction. That triggered an even greater expression of anxiety.

Why are you so upset? I said I was sorry, Dawn replied reflexively. I haven't tried to take advantage of you. I don't want you to think that. She watched him carefully. His mood changed a bit but not for the better. He seemed to be sad.

What's the matter? Dawn asked. Please tell me. I can't read your thoughts. Please don't close me out. I couldn't bear that. Something triggered in Bill's mind, as if he finally understood the reason for Dawn's admission, her concern, and her current panic.

Close you out. Good grief. Whatever could give you that idea? I've just been scared that you were doing this because you didn't care for me and you felt crummy about pretending you did.

Oh, no. Don't you ever think that, Billy. Don't ever think that.

Dawn realized later that she had not been sufficiently discreet in her choice of venues for their discussion. Some part or all of their conversation must have been heard. Anyone who wanted to needle Bill from that day forward called him Billy. The warm summer night, the admissions, the sudden freedom from their anxiety toward each other—it all ended in an outpouring of love with affection. There was sheer delight in being around each other. They grinned uncontrollably and then laughed at the silliness of their grins. That was nine months ago. The woman who was helping Bill lower the floor at the other end of the tunnel was well into her eighth month of pregnancy and carrying twins. However, even Bill had to admit that she looked quite capable of carrying twins and operating a manual jack, which meant raising and lowering five tons of concrete. Dawn had never been a weakling.

Bill began working the other jack. They brought the floor down, put the bike on it, and began to crank it back up. About halfway up, the mechanism began working on its own, and the floor rose into place. Bill moved the plates into place below the massive concrete floor while Dawn reinforced the jack that held up the middle of the concrete floor. Then they both slid the metal bars into place that connected the plates and the jack, completing the reinforcement of the floor. Now down below the main floor, the only thing that could possibly give them away would be a loud sound or cooking something with garlic. Bill had gotten used to eating cold food, and both of them were accustomed to whispering. Even so, they never occupied the space below either garage. They would live in a space midway between the two garages. It was a precaution. If either of the false floors was discovered, they could escape out of the other one.

Cell Seventeen, the Philly cell, was big. It was an escape cell. It was one of the largest escape cells in the underground. Even so, no one took a single human life for granted. No one in cell seventeen17 had died. They had helped six thousand people escape, and they hadn't lost a single operative. James, the manager of Cell Seventeen, said it was the best way to create more escape cells. If no one died in his cell, no one would be afraid of setting up another escape cell in the Northeast.

That was the key. The Northeast needed more cells. This was the heartland of the State. Many, maybe even most of the State's highest-level administrators, had taken doctrine in the Ivys. High-level administrators looked at the underground as a denial of the highest precepts of the State, a denial of the need to help those who might be identified as victims and to dedicate a part of the work effort of every worker to that end. There were victims within the State just as there were victims beyond the boundaries of the State, in other States, and in lands in which the elite had been unable to construct a State. Those victims would only receive aid as long as the State was present to provide it. The State was designed for this purpose, but it had to be maintained against rebellion. That was the dicta repeated in one form or another by every State agent.

The underground was not in a position to retrain the mass of people who had been steeped in the State doctrine. Centuries of repetitive indoctrination could not be easily negated. What the escape cells did was to free the big players, the managers, who had become disillusioned with a system that allowed no independent action. Most of the managers, they helped to relocate to places where the underground had replaced failing companies with innovative companies of their own design. Bill and Dawn helped them get out. Others found them work, but the escape cells weren't constructed for any sort of follow-up. Follow-up was the responsibility of another branch of the underground. As soon as a client was out of danger, the cell moved on to the next project.

Bill and Dawn proceeded to pull open cold meals and drinks. Bill's stomach was still tied up in knots. It had been a narrow escape. To quiet his nerves, Bill pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and inverted it. A bright display appeared on the table below it. It was a map, a very elaborate map, showing every potential escape route into Camden. Those buildings are huge. We've used them for escapes for years now. No one looks twice at them. If we wanted to build a factory below one of them, it would be completely hidden. With any luck, we could be manufacturing within a year if we could get a large enough population into Camden. Or we could use the unys that are already in the city. They are in disarray, but there are enough of them with the brains and common sense to fill out the employment rosters. We'd need a good category M4 or, barring that, someone who will happily take bribes.

Dawn looked at him sadly. It is still too dangerous, she said. If they discover a plant, any plant, supplying the needs of the State but operated by the underground, they will come down on us like the plague. We don't want a war. Little by little we are winning people over, but a war now would still galvanize most of the population against us. These people are the masters of spin. They can turn any ‘situation' against us except the ones they don't know about.

But I want to see factories developed in the Northeast. This business of rescuing people and then relocating them halfway across the State is clumsy and dangerous. They can be found so easily. I think we can bury managers in Camden. I think we can build factories in Camden. There are places that the agents would never search in that city. We've got a stock of managers, and we've got a lot of low-hanging fruit—companies that are about to go under. Why can't we invade the Northeast?

All of our developers say it's too dangerous. Magnus runs the Northeast, and he's not someone we want to tangle with right now. Dawn spoke with a degree of certainty, but Bill was not convinced.

I'm not going to give up. I'll find a place up there that's so safe that even you will have to agree that it can be converted. Bill looked adamant about his last statement. Then he smiled and nodded to Dawn. I know it's impossible now, but I'd like to help my old friend Connie. He could use some help, I think.

Bill couldn't do anything at that moment anyway. Even if he knew of a safe zone in the Northeast where the underground could begin to build, he couldn't be there to help them for two reasons. The most critical one was that he was now in danger of discovery. He had to look for a new home, and he had to plan an escape route for himself. Whether those were things he most wanted to do, they were what had to be done now.

*****

Magnus watched the young girl in the plaid skirt. She had entered the building promptly at eight o'clock and was ready for her testing ten minutes early. She's gung ho, Magnus noted.

Everyone knows about the one-way mirrors, Magnus. She knows she's being watched. She may just be gung ho because it gains her points, Serena countered.

If that's the case, why aren't the others doing the same thing? Her father is a victim too. Just what we need, a gung ho daughter and a wimpy father. He won't interfere with her training. Magnus watched the girl making impressions on an answer card. She was so sure of herself. She was a perfect example of the sort of Doctrinaires that he wanted as agents. They needed that sort of enthusiasm to help them ferret out the unworthies. Get them back on the dole and beholden.

Her father's a COO. He's not as wimpy as you think. I would rate him as frustrated.

If he's frustrated and hasn't done anything about it, he's a wimp. Usually these guys don't even have an idea fleshed out. They come suggesting half-cocked ideas that wouldn't even work if they were put into effect. It's as if they thrive on rejection. Magnus looked up at Serena, who had already made a mental note of his latest observation. Serena would be a perfect successor for his post when he retired. She was clever. Her selection would reflect well upon him. She approved of his methodology. Magnus wouldn't want to see undone everything that he had worked so hard to build. She wasn't quite as bright as her supervisor. That was important. Magnus didn't want anyone outshining him the moment he left the post. If she'd just stop trying to read his mind.

Serena watched Magnus intently as he moved from the subject of Susie to the issue of escapees. It was accompanied by a physical movement from one place to another. Magnus could not close one subject and begin another until he had moved about or at least changed direction. Serena couldn't tell whether it was a habit he could not break or a method that made the transition easier. That didn't matter. Serena had discovered she could make someone feel comfortable by emulating Magnus, or she could, if the need arose, make someone quite uncomfortable by changing the subject without any visible sign that she was going to change the subject. That provided her with a way of gaining the upper hand. Magnus didn't see any reason for gaining the upper hand in a conversation.

We have only lost two hundred escapees during the entire year, Serena said. She was testing her ability to manage their conversation. That remark was bound to elicit an angry response.

When I started my tour of duty as ombudsman for the people, we lost three hundred escapees. I cut the number to less than one hundred. Now it's back up again. Magnus didn't take the bait. He wasn't going to show his anger.

They lose thousands in the Mid West and tens of thousands in the Plains. We have a sterling record compared to that, Serena suggested. She scanned his features for any sign of anger or frustration. Instead, he preached.

"We are the closest province to the capitol. We are under the greatest scrutiny. If those other provinces become unmanageable, we can send in the army. If we become unmanageable, then the entire fabric of the State is threatened.

We need to find this guy Bill. He's a slippery fish, but he needs to be found all the same, Magnus added.

That could become messy, Serena said. She didn't want to seek out the leader of the rebels mainly because she doubted if it was possible to do. She certainly didn't want it to be a condition for her advancement.

I'm not going to go so far as to make this a condition to my recommending you for my position. I do think it would cement your chances, however. Serena nodded. What else could she do? His comment left her future up in the air but she couldn't argue the fairness of his approach. If she did, she would undoubtedly worsen her chances. Without making the sort of demands on her which could seem unfair, he had managed to accomplish exactly what he wanted. There was no sense looking helpless. Serena smiled a wry smile and began to leave. Magnus had changed position once more. He was looking at the young applicant again. Take her with you, Serena. Let's see if she remains gung ho after she has been treated to the enforcement end of doctrine.

She hasn't even finished the test yet, Serena said.

Look at the board, Magnus told her. Serena looked up. The test required that 70 percent of the questions be answered correctly. Incorrect answers lost a point. Less than one in ten of those who took the test were successful in passing it. Suz had finished 80 percent of the doctrinal exam. So far, she had not missed a question.

She could stop the test right now, and she would be accepted, but she is going to finish it. Have we ever had a perfect score on this test?

Serena queried her computer. Just one, she said. Her grandfather did it.

What happened to him? Magnus asked.

He disappeared shortly thereafter, Serena answered. With crystal clarity, Serena saw what Magnus was driving at. Do you think that her grandfather might just be this ‘Bill' fellow we have been looking for?

I've thought that for some time now. She may be of little help in finding him. Then again, she may think like him or at least have the intellect to help us in our search.

Do you think she will do it if she knows it's her grandfather?

If you handle it right. Tell her that ‘Bill' may be her grandfather. Children at this age are highly impressionable. You need to make her feel guilty for having such a relative. Make her atonement be his apprehension. Then we'll see what she is capable of.

She's only ten.

Look at her test. She's a natural. Just observing her might give you some sense of how her grandfather thinks. Besides, I'm not suggesting that you do it tomorrow. She will go to the dome and go through training. She'll still be young after that, but old enough to have developed a thicker skin, I should think.

Aren't we supposed to nurture Doctrinaire prodigies. I'm not the nurturing sort. Serena had little interest in working with a ten-year-old. She had avoided every inducement that the State offered to its superior female staff to bear children. She didn't consider herself the nurturing type. If she didn't want to raise her own child, she certainly didn't want to be the guiding light for some ten-year-old gung ho phenom with all the potential personality malfunctions that would develop during her teens. She watched Magnus for any indication that he might be willing to relent on her assignment. When he didn't, Serena shrugged and opened the door to walk out.

You should have more faith in yourself, Magnus added as a parting shot. If you play your cards right, she could become a powerful ally for you in the future. Magnus moved to his desk and lowered himself gently into his patent leather chair. Serena stared at him for a moment, but she broke it off before he noticed her. She knew he didn't mean it. Serena would probably botch her relationship with the kid before either she or Susie could take advantage of it, but it couldn't hurt to try, she guessed.

As Serena walked out of the office, she cleared her thinking. The girl probably is a prodigy, but it will be years before she is released to play the role of an agent and a spy. Magnus knew this, and so he knew that Serena's appointment had been pushed years away when he gave her that assignment. What had she done wrong? She knew the answer as soon as she asked herself the question. She had tried to match wits with the master. It was a mistake.

*****

Art couldn't believe he was in a back alley playing grundge. Two days ago he had seen the first grundge game of his life. Now he was playing thief on the blue team, trying to swipe a rubberball from the guard or a messenger on the red team. The game moved with a pace that made his Whiffle ball seem dull. Everyone in the game knew that it was illegal, unless you were a uny. A uny could play it because they weren't important enough to worry about, but the law would even crack down on a uny if they saw one explaining the game.

It had a little bit of everything. Art had to swipe a red ball and throw it through the first window to the inside man who would throw it to a messenger to take it to the guard on Art's team. Art's team was losing, and he knew that part of the reason was him, but he couldn't help feeling excited anyway. This was way too much fun. They were well on the way to losing their last ball when Art got his first, really good chance to steal a ball. It was one of his own team's balls. That was doubly important because you had to have at least one of your own balls to win. The messenger that he was chasing was paying more attention to Art than the ground, and he took a fall. Art stepped over him and snatched the blue ball. Then he immediately raced to the window and threw it in. Red's thief had taken another blue ball from blue's guard and thrown it in at the same time. The red inside man got confused, just for a moment, and blue's insider got both balls out to their messenger and back to the guard.

Who did that? someone asked at the other end.

It was Art, came the accusation.

Way to go, newbie, a red thief hollered at him. Your ass is toast when I get ahold of you.

Art saw a tall black kid running right at him with a green ball in his hand, and Art recognized him. Josh, Art nearly screamed. The boy dodged him and ran the green ball to the red guard, then he looked back.

Josh, you're on scholarship, Art said. If they find you out here playing illegal games— Art didn't finish the sentence. Josh rushed up to him so quickly that the last words stuck in his mouth.

You wouldn't tell, would you, Artie? Josh asked with a snarl.

Of course not, Art replied. The brief confrontation took some of the enjoyment out of the game for a while, but Art managed to put it behind him. Grundge was too intense to allow for worries to get in the way, and the game that looked like a runaway for red was slowly turning into a red, green, blue stalemate. Art hadn't even looked at the time when the three insiders yelled out Time! That was it. They counted balls, and red had two more than anyone else, so they got two points, but blue was right behind with one. Someone approached Art with a blue marker and put one mark on his hand.

If you want to play in another grundge game, you can as long as that mark is there. You did good, kid. You've got good moves for a first-time thief, but you might make a good messenger as well. Try it out next time. Your buddy over there wants you to try red sometime. I'd go with him. He knows what he's doing.

Art wasn't so certain that Josh knew what he was doing. Scholarships for unys were few and far between, and Josh's scholarship was to a management school, which meant that you were fixed for life. Art was so wrapped up in thinking about Josh that he failed to look at himself until he was close to home. He was filthy. There was no way to avoid his mother's questions if he came in looking like this unless he could establish some excuse. He saw Kat in the front yard. She was preoccupied with one of the neighbor's cats and didn't see him. He snuck up on her, clawed at her coat with one hand, and said meow! in the loudest voice he could muster. Kat turned so quickly she almost fell. By that time, Art was gone, racing through the backyard toward a dirt patch where his dad had never been able to get grass to grow.

Kat didn't chase him. Art didn't think that she would. But Suz did come after him, darting out of the back door of the house to see what was going on. By the time Suz got close to him, however, Art had slipped in the dirt patch and covered himself with a film of grit and grime sufficient to hide his earlier escapades. Just to make sure, however, Art slipped once again as he tried to get up, coating the front of his clothing with the same dirt. He made a valiant effort at brushing the grime off. When he entered the mudroom, however, he was still dirty and prepared for his mother's chastisement.

Art's mother wasn't there. His dad stood by the door. As Art stepped into the mudroom, he thought he saw a slight grin on his father's face. It disappeared as Suz passed by. Any evidence of approval of any wrongdoing, no matter how slight, was withheld from Suz. She was predisposed to tell everyone in authority about anyone who might have misbehaved. It was her duty. Art sucked up to her. Everybody in the family did to some extent, even though she was the youngest member of the group. She walked the line herself and believed wholeheartedly that everyone should. If the State said it was wrong, it was wrong. Suz carried a big stick inside the family and everywhere she went.

After Suz found her way to the dinner table, Art looked at his dad one more time. There wasn't any telltale sign of approval or disapproval from his dad, but he felt the slightest sign of acceptance in his dad's demeanor. Your mother is in the living room, being upset, his father told him. Art wasn't old enough to grasp the difference between upset and being upset, but he sensed that the latter one meant she was being a bit theatrical. That was okay with Art. Mom usually felt indignant when her acting out was ignored. That meant that she would be paying more attention to herself than to him.

But Art's level of concern climbed once again after he had showered and come to the dinner table. Kat sat beside him and immediately noticed the mark on the back of his hand. Kat didn't say anything. That was bad. If Kat didn't already know what the mark meant, she would have asked him. She would ignore it only if she knew or sensed that it was something irregular. Kat was the opposite of Suz. What someone did was their own business. If they wanted to share it, she would listen. Otherwise, she saw no reason to interfere. Still, if Kat knew, it meant that others might know as well. He had almost decided to hide his arm for a moment when Kat spoke up. Looks like someone's been messing with Mr. Fuller's markers again. Kat pointed to Art's arm.

I just wanted to draw something on my hand, but Mr. Fuller came back too fast. Don't tell on me, Art said.

You shouldn't get into teachers' stuff. It's against school policy. I'll have to tell Mr. Fuller, Suz said.

That's not necessary, their dad said, adding fuel to Suz's conviction to go tell Mr. Fuller. Tell us, Susie. How did the exam go?

Super. I'm the first applicant they've had in a long while that answered all the exam questions correctly. Mister Magnus said I was a prodigy. Suz looked at her father with all the seriousness she could muster. They want to admit me to Washington Doctrinal. I'd be tutored individually, and I'd get an early acceptance to the school so I could take all of the high school courses on an accelerated schedule.

Do you know who your tutor would be? Connie asked.

It's a lady named Serena. She was there to interview me after Mister Magnus gave me the news. Suz fidgeted a bit before she said anything more. She seems nice enough, was the only way she could describe her interview with Serena. Suz already knew that she would have a hard time with Serena. She was planning for it—hardening herself so that she could handle the criticism that Serena was likely to give her. Seems nice enough was Suz's way of keeping her father at arm's length. Suz already knew that he wouldn't approve of her leaving home.

Art reached past her just then and grabbed a roll. Get your paw out of my face, Suz said defiantly. She was intent upon changing the subject, and this looked like a perfect opportunity. But her father wasn't going to allow the subject to change.

We'll miss you if you go, he said to her back as she started wrestling with Art's arm.

No, you won't, Suz said, barely turning around.

Yes, I will, her father insisted. Yes, he probably would, she thought. She knew her father didn't belong where he was. He had risen far too high in the pecking order for someone who was as sensitive as he had proven to be. That and his incessant plunges into creative management would eventually sink his boat even though he had been lucky so far. He was on the edge, especially because of his father, whom the State considered a possible leader of the silent revolt. It was a lot for a girl of ten, going on eleven, to digest.