Chapter 4: What Used to Be
Citizen Gregory Michaels pulled the round spectacles from his face. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, frustration tearing at the edges of his concentration. He wiped the sweat from his receding hairline with the white sleeve of his laboratory uniform and turned back towards the subject.
A shirtless man, roughly mid-thirties lay on the table, drugged and helpless. His head lolled back and forth, mouthing and vocalizing random gibberish, breathing in short gasps. Bruises and abrasions adorned his body. His face was purple and swollen, nose still broken. A surprisingly well-groomed beard adorned his face but was stained with crusted bits of dried blood.
A black apparatus, oddly like swimming goggles, covered his eyes. The casing stretched over his ears, enveloping them as well. A few wires snaked into both sensory pieces, connected to a controlling device with buttons and dials. The device also connected to electrodes on the man's body, monitoring his vital functions.
Michaels was privy to scenes like this repeatedly throughout his week. He found it to be a pointless waste of his time. The conditioning of subprime, genetic wastelands was technically his area of expertise, but impending promotions had left the Citizen frustrated with old tasks.
The conditioning process was necessary to integrate the vermin into their roles in society. First the body must be broken, he heard his own words ringing in his mind, then the mind. Once this is accomplished, there exists no will or spirit, and the subject will be prepared to accept any instruction. His presentation had received thunderous applause, as it would solve many of the insubordination issues created by the menial labor force.
Of course, when it was approved and set into widespread usage, he didn't expect to be the primary person responsible for dealing with the subjects himself. The process was practically automated; sedatives and mild psychotropics were administered along with an overload of sensory bombardment, primarily audio and visual. The overwhelming nature of the process effectively crushed the person's mind; hours of constant panic and fear drove subjects to regress into a fragile state. Then, through careful, gentle coaxing, they were conditioned into perfect servitude. Combined with a chemical castration to purge their inferior genes from the human race and facilitate docility, an obedient servant could be trained to do any task. It was a brilliant system.
But why do I have to be the one to deal with them? Michaels wondered.
The man on the table coughed, spitting up a jot of blood. Michaels frowned. So uncivilized. He glanced over at the intravenous apparatus. The bag was empty. Close enough, he thought, glancing at the vitals.
He leaned over, dialed back the intensity of the visual stimulus, and said per protocol, "You're safe now."
Over the course of another couple of minutes, he reduced the stimulus to nothing, whispering assurances. "Tell me your name," he said softly to the man.
The captive opened his mouth, coughing again. "J-Jef-Jeffrey."
"Do you know where you are?"
The man took a few quick breaths. "I… I-I'm… safe now…"
Michaels raised an eyebrow. What a strange response, he thought, never having heard it before in hundreds of subjects. Whatever.
Moving away from the center of the circular room, he touched a button at the wall, contacting the receptionist at the front desk. "Tell Inquisitor Gottfried that his priority subject is stable and prepared for transfer." Michaels didn't know, or care, why the high-ranking Inquisitor had any interest in this particular individual. As far as Michaels could tell, this Jeffrey was nothing more than another worthless denizen of Old Haven, docile and ready to serve.
A female voice came back. "Yes, Citizen Michaels."
"Oh, have someone bring me a cup of coffee; I'm returning to my office to see if I can complete any real work today. Let no one bother me for the next three hours," he said, stifling a yawn.
"Of course."
Michaels sighed heavily, not even looking at the misfortunate soul stretched out on the table, unlikely to have any status improvement in the future. No matter, the man's fate was not his concern. He slipped his glasses back upon his face and walked towards the exit. The doors slid open, and he passed through them, unmindful or caring about the armed guards standing at attention on either side.
With his usual hunching posture, he ambled down the sterile white hallway with its clean tiles and lack of any sort of intrigue or imagination. It was as he liked it to be. Clean. Efficient. No unnecessary ornamentation to interfere with deep thoughts.
He turned down another hallway, identical to the last save perhaps only in distance. His body was keenly aware of the correct path and went through the motions. His mind was occupied elsewhere, with the curious situation that fell into his lap not terribly long ago.
Citizen Marcus Lexington Coleman used to be the head of the Natural Philosophy branch of The Institute of Intellectual Research and Development of Haven, commonly referred to as the Institute. The Institute was the pinnacle of Haven's power and intellect, the crowning achievement of Citizen One, Franklin Lange. Citizen Coleman had been a not-terribly old sort of man with a very grandfatherly attitude of tolerance and benevolence.
Another significant waste of time. Michaels gave a thin smile, remembering for the hundredth time very clearly, 'Citizen Coleman used to be…'
Citizen Coleman used to have access to the near unlimited resources of the Institute. He used to sit in a very similar plush leather chair in the large office that Michaels found himself once again giddy to be entering. It was the size of a small apartment, even including a lavatory. Coleman used to have a kitchen facility, but after the incident, Michaels opted not to bother replacing it. He knew very little about cooking, and eating was something he seldom did. Even when necessary, it was only with the strongest of urging from his thin, reedy body. Instead, he used the space to put in more storage.
Coleman also used to have access to the terminal laid into the desk and the database within. He used to be able to house every single file of potential interest within the vast storage space, as well as access to huge volumes of research materials. He used to enjoy the finest, most unbreakable security on his files. It ensured that only he, and possibly Citizen One or Inquisitors with a potent override code, could view them.
As was noted, Coleman used to be a grandfatherly sort, from the old realm of thought that there was some intrinsic value to be found in every person, including the desperate urchins from below. He used to feel that they could be helped, cared for. He used to be a champion for their rights, fighting to integrate them into society, rather than continue to keep them apart. Coleman used to be a brilliant man.
Coleman used to have a lot of things; used to be a lot of things, Michaels thought smugly. He also used to be alive.
That thought, morbid as it was, provided Michaels with the impending promotion he felt was so richly deserved, and it seemed that Citizen One experienced similar thoughts. That was probably why Coleman's office was destroyed, the poor man still inside, with a mild incendiary device. Or, at least that was the rumor. Officially, the report stated the coffee maker Coleman owned had started a fire, which somehow tripped the sprinkler system and shorted the electronic locks. Never mind that what remained of Coleman had been fused to his leather chair as though he had done nothing to save himself.
There weren't even enough remaining features of the body to be identified by sight, thought Michaels with macabre satisfaction. They had to pry open the jaw on his brittle blackened face and check against his dental records. In the end, it was confirmed. Marcus Coleman was dead, and his place as head in the Natural Philosophy wing was wide open.
In the beginning, Michaels respected and even admired the man. That was well before Coleman continually and publicly spouted all of the old-world drivel about equality and tolerance towards the genetically inferior. It was odd behavior, especially from one with such a high standing in society and a place on the secretive advisory council. Even so, it wouldn't have mattered i
f Michaels had worshipped Coleman for a hundred years. Citizen Michaels was a man of ambition. Anything within the farthest reaches of blocking his path was despised, undermined, and ultimately eliminated.
Michaels seated himself in front of the terminal, summoning the interface to begin digging through the files once more. In reality, he thought, it was a merciful favor that Coleman had died when he did. Were it much longer, I may have had him dragged from his bed and shot in the night.
He paused for a moment, considering, wondering if he could have that kind of authority. A touch of a smile crossed his lips, and he returned his attention to the console. Despite being granted access to the most extensive resources anyone could enjoy by the most important Citizen in existence, Coleman apparently did not retain much confidence in his fellow man.
There has to be something useful in here, thought Michaels, not for the first time. Normal procedure when transfers such as these occurred was to purge the computer of all personal files. Michaels had tried to, but the system wouldn't allow it. From there, a cursory perusal revealed some very odd things. Twisted, bizarre directory paths. Quite a bit of personal and extra security measures. With that much protection, Michaels had decided there had to be something worth finding.
Michaels cursed in frustration again. Months of this! It had taken long enough to crack the extra security to view even half of the material, which he borrowed a tech to assist him with. Now, he had to dig through hundreds of dummy files filled with nonsense text and scrambled picture and video files. Directory searches had proven fruitless, as he hadn't a clue what he was looking for. In addition, the program that ran the searches could only be described as fickle with a cursed sense of humor. The thrice-damned thing would randomly come up with different results for the same search, as though taunting him.
He shook his head at the absurdity of it all. Coleman was mocking him three months after his death. Three months! I've been digging through this garbage for three whole months, his mind raged. Lord only knows which files mean a damn, which ones are intended to mislead, and which ones provide clues to proper pieces. "What am I going to do if they all have some kind of bloody importance?" He clenched his teeth.
Blood boiling with frustration, he slammed the lid on the display inlaid into the desk and leaned back into the extravagant chair, sighing heavily. Maybe the old fool deserved a little bit of credit after all, thought Michaels grimly. It won't last. There has to be something in here. Determined, he once again set to work, trying to keep his irritation under control.
No one he had spoken with could give the slightest indication of what Coleman had been working on in the months before his death. Everyone noted that he was very excited and doubly secretive. He rarely engaged in conversation and spent days in his office without leaving. He delegated other work to lower-ranking assistants, in violation of protocol, citing vitally important research as holding priority. While Michaels wholeheartedly agreed that most anything required by protocol was often a horrid misuse of time, he grudgingly understood the necessity of it.
Insubordination without adequate explanation was itself grounds for a terrible fate. Often times even good reasons for it still ended unfavorably for the offending party, so Michaels was keenly aware that he needed to adhere to the rules, if not in thought then in practice. He knew it was necessary to avoid finding himself on the wrong end of retribution. At least, that was the theory.
Sighing heavily again at his fruitless efforts, he sunk back into the chair once more, rubbing his face. His eye lit upon the near-empty cold cup of coffee, delivered… He glanced at his watch and felt the realization of temporal passage wash over him; he'd been working for hours. He picked up the styrofoam cup, swirled the muddy dregs into the remaining liquid, and poured the silty contents into his mouth. Michaels continued in his contemplation.
His reverie was broken by a knock at the office door. Slightly annoyed at the interruption yet glad for a diversion, he spoke sharply, "What?"
"Oh come now, don't be that way. Everyone could use a visitor from time to time!" the lightly-muffled, jovial voice spilled in from the hallway. Michaels rolled his eyes and pressed a button on his desk, disengaging the lock on the door.
The door swung open, displaying a large bearded man with deep-set twinkling eyes, striding with purpose into the room. Michaels forced a smile that ended up looking more like a grimace. "Good afternoon, Citizen Dunlevy."
Dunlevy gave a slight frown and wagged his finger. "Now, now, my dear boy Gregory, how many times must I tell you to call me Arthur?" He threw back his head and laughed loudly, his substantial girth shaking along with what felt like the entire room. "I mean, really. We're colleagues, friends even! I trust and respect you, revere your insight from time to time. You simply must call me Arthur!" he exclaimed before abruptly launching into recent gossip.
Michaels ignored it because the statement about being on a first-name basis seemed like less of a request than an order. This irritated Michaels, mostly because the cheerful idiot technically had seniority.
Michaels' assessment of Arthur Dunlevy's intellect was born more out of irritation than actual fact. Citizen Dunlevy was the rather intelligent, if a little short-sighted, head of Sociological Research in the Institute. He had been around for hundreds of changes ranging from slight to large that had brought about the current state of enlightenment. The portly man had been around and involved for close to forty of his sixty-something years. Dunlevy occasionally claimed to have assisted in various decision-making in the Acts of Separation.
The truth behind it was mildly suspicious but plausible. The timelines did work in Dunlevy's favor. He did also retain a place as a member of the advisory council, whatever it actually was. However, it seemed very few could claim meeting Franklin Lange, Citizen One, much less exerting any influence upon him. It was rumored that Lange hadn't been directly seen by anyone for years, decades even, trying to remain unexposed to danger and thereby ensuring his continued rule.
Michaels' mind drifted to the rumor overheard recently regarding Coleman's death. "The only people to see the real Citizen One," the man or woman had spoken, "are people about to die. He's got access to everyone's terminals. He can pop in for a visit, and then… curtains." Michaels briefly wondered if it was true. He wondered if Coleman sitting at the desk now belonging to Michaels had seen the face of his own death.
While Michaels considered, Dunlevy had continued speaking without pause, having seated himself in a chair opposite his colleague. He was completely oblivious to the fact that Michaels hadn't listened to a word of it. "So you see, in spite of everything, they've still managed to survive. It's absolutely incredible! I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't been observing for so long. It actually looks like sheer tenacity can be a deciding factor in survival, even if natural selection demands that such profound inferiority be purged."
Michaels' attention became focused. "Really, now?"
Dunlevy's grin widened at this statement. "Oh ho! I thought that might get your attention," he said, eliciting a scowl from Michaels. "Now maybe you'll listen to what I have to say, mhmmm?"
Rolling his eyes, Michaels sighed and gestured for him to continue.
Dunlevy rubbed his hands together and grinned again, wider yet. "Excellent. As you well know, we left them behind a number of years ago, offering them low level positions if they joined us, and then later collecting them as a labor force. We were assuming whatever remained of the rest would kill each other or die out very soon after, and we wouldn't need to concern our populace with their existence any further, correct?" Without waiting for Michaels to respond, he continued. "Well, as you also know, they are still alive. Not thriving by any means, but they continue to survive, despite clearly unfavorable conditions. After twelve years, hundreds of them are still left."
Michaels rubbed his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know all of this. Vermin have a knack for survival. What's your point?"
Dunlevy roared with laughter, slamming an open hand upon the table.
"Oh ho! You are quite right my friend! However, what is most remarkable is how they continue to do all but thrive!"
Michaels thought about this for a moment, brow furrowing. It was true that every indication had suggested the dregs of the city would die out quickly and cleanly, but maybe they were wrong. Worth a little investigation, he thought.
"All right, tell me." Michaels sat back, attention focusing a little more.
"Interested now?" Dunlevy inquired, eyes twinkling, thrilled to recite his research once again. "They have generated small communities."
Michaels cast this aside as unimportant, twirling his hand in a 'yes, fine, go on' gesture.
Ignoring Michaels, Dunlevy continued. "These communities could more accurately be described as tribes or gangs; a hierarchical society that ends in one prominent figure." He smiled and added, "It's incredible; one of the leaders has created what appears to be an 'animal pack' out of a large portion of the former criminal class. He's put himself in the position of the alpha male, taking all of the women for himself. His men are fearfully loyal but are frequently captured or killed. Oh, and this is the best part: he calls himself the Silver Fox." He shook with laughter again. Michaels gave a polite smile. The nickname was a little silly, but it certainly was not as funny as Dunlevy seemed to think.
Still chuckling, Dunlevy continued. "All of the head figures appear to retain little love for their underlings. An endearing quality, don't you think?"
Michaels cracked an appropriate smirk. "This is all very interesting, but it doesn't explain anything. Yes, they appear to be capable of surviving. Yes, they've created fascinating," the word dripped with sarcasm, "little societies. The bottom line is they haven't managed to do anything actually worth mentioning. All they're good for is," he grimaced at this cut-and-paste answer, reminded of the constant disturbance he faced, "a menial labor force."
"Right you are my friend. Absolutely correct! A keener mind we have not around here, not since poor Citizen Coleman passed on. You know he actually recommended you to replace him. I, of course, agreed and have been trying to convince Citizen One of your merits…" irritation at the attempt at flattery and especially at the talk of Coleman flared through Michaels' body, heating his blood once more.
After babbling for a while, Dunlevy reached an important point. "…but what you fail to comprehend, my dear Gregory, is there may be a threat."
Michaels scoffed at this. "Please. What could there possibly be? They're nothing. They've survived longer than we expected, but soon their resources will run dry, and they will all quietly die."
"No, my friend." A grim seriousness, uncharacteristic, seeped into the conversation. "It is unlikely they will. We've caught wind that someone has been living down there, helping the vermin to survive. Someone who doesn't belong with them. This person has been assisting them, and recent information has come to light that he may be trying to organize a serious military presence."
Michaels hadn't heard this before. "Really…" He felt skeptical about the very notion, but it was still not something that could be so easily ignored. "Is that all?"
Dunlevy sighed. "Not quite. There has been increased pressure in recent months to come to a more final solution. Acquiring subjects," Michaels thought he almost caught a hint of disgust in Dunlevy's tone, "uses valuable resources. The labor force is helpful, yes, but some are concerned about leaving the rest unchecked."
Michaels was curious; usually Dunlevy didn't discuss things of higher importance. "Why the sudden change?"
Dunlevy gave a sad smile. "Without Marcus' support any longer, the opinion against those living down below has shifted rapidly towards the negative. The notion of intelligent and cunning leaders among them makes the case even stronger."
Michaels gave a slight sneer. Good riddance to that old fool, I say, he thought. He recalled the image of the stiff, unrecognizable, blackened and charred remains of Coleman. He recalled with a slight measure of satisfaction as he had the body dumped into the trash receptacle, intended for deposit down below. If you love them so much, he had thought, then go ahead and join them. He had been filled with a deep satisfaction as the receptacles opened, dumping the trash and human refuse to the vacant streets below.
"Ah, so you think you know where this is going?" Dunlevy remarked, misinterpreting the slight smile that had crossed Michaels' face. "Well, you're likely correct. Some of us wish to eliminate the current faction leaders entirely, to keep them from organizing properly. This could throw their plans into chaos as others fight for control of the regime."
Michaels thought this made sense, so he nodded, motioning for Dunlevy to continue.
"Well, my dear friend, you would normally be correct, but others don't think the solution to be as," he gave a little cough, "permanent as they'd like it to be. They believe it is time to be finished with Old Haven. Others yet wish to keep the flow of servants as the Citizenship stays more content when they don't have to do servant work. Unfortunately now, without Marcus' voice, the balance has tilted in favor of a permanent solution, and those who support it are gaining ground."
"Why is that such a problem, shouldn't we simply be rid of them once and for all?" This seemed quite logical to Michaels.
Dunlevy glared, an uncharacteristic expression on his large face. "Such a policy change should not be taken lightly, dear Gregory. We pride ourselves on our civility and enlightenment. Does that mean we get rid of anyone who is of mild inconvenience?"
Intriguing, Michaels thought. I've never thought Dunlevy to be a sympathetic. Maybe he spent too much time with Coleman. Yet Michaels wondered what it was that spurred Dunlevy to be spilling this information, and why it seemed to be of such great concern to him.
"What's the point of all this?"
Dunlevy sighed again. "It would seem that some very useful information has, just today, come into light from that fellow who was captured. I believe you administered his conditioning?" Michaels' memory flashed to his earlier task of the day, and he nodded. "It would seem, from what the man revealed, that there is more to be concerned about. It has moved what was simple talk into action."
Michaels cocked an eyebrow. "Really, now? What's going to happen?"
Dunlevy appeared to come to a sudden realization about where he was and with whom he was speaking. "Oh. I'm… sorry, Gregory, but," his demeanor changed abruptly, and he radiated cheerfulness again, "that would be telling, wouldn't it? You'll find out soon enough, I'm sure."
"Wait, hold on-"
Dunlevy sprang from his seat, ignoring Michaels. "Well! That's enough gossip for one day. I'm sure I will see you very soon, Gregory. This promises to be an exciting week." He swiftly strolled out the door, saying nothing else, leaving Michaels with his swirling thoughts.
Are they planning an incursion? he wondered. Michaels definitely got the sense that Dunlevy wasn't supposed be saying as much as he did, and the false cheer at the end of the visit did little to cover it up. He's probably right, though, Michaels thought. I'll find out all of this soon enough.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. Still a few hours left in the day; time to get something done. He raised the lid of the terminal, and set back to his search.