Chronicles of the Mask: Episode 3

25 minutes

General Audience

I.

“Shelton Simpson, stand up!”

He struggled to his feet. The red-robed figures moved toward him in a tight circle.

“How do you know my na-”

“Be quiet, if you know what’s good for you,” said a female voice.

“I say kill him now,” said a different voice. It was deep, male, and profoundly tired.

“Not yet,” retorted the female speaker, “not until Moseth has had his say.”

The man scoffed, but she persisted.

“He’ll go before the bench, like the rest. We’ll take him there now.”

The others hesitated, the flames from their torches dancing angrily across their burnished golden masks. The male speaker made a frustrated grunt. He suddenly grabbed Shelton’s arm and pushed him forward.

“Well, go then!” he said.

Shelton began marching briskly in the direction he was being herded, conscious of the red-robed figures falling in behind and around him, their torches held out before them like cattle prods. Though his eyes faced away from them, he was intuitively aware of the location and relative positions of each of his captors. It was part of what Quid had done to his brain. The sense of a threat flipped a mental switch, and he began planning the precise sequence of strikes that would get him free. A few more steps, and he could take them all out, and flee.

“But where would you go?” asked the female voice.

Shelton stopped in his tracks. For a moment he wondered if he’d said his thought out loud. He turned back toward the red robes.

“Keep moving,” growled the angry man with the deep voice.

“No, Gage, wait a moment,” said the female.

She came up to Shelton, close enough that he could make out the brown of her eyes through the slits in her mask.

“We know what you’re capable of, Mr. Simpson. But even if you could take us all, you’d never find your way out of this place without our help. There are traps everywhere, and places where we can hide, and shoot at you from the dark.”

Shelton said nothing for a moment, trying to gauge whether the masked woman was preserving his life or her own. Either way, if what she said was true, it was better to bide his time.

“Fine,” he said, trying to sound much tougher than he felt, “but if I get the sense that you’re trying to kill me…”

“-Unless Moseth finds you guilty of a high crime,” she cut in, “you needn’t fear death. The Hole, maybe, but not death. Now keep walking.”

Shelton stumbled forward, wondering if “the Hole” was exactly what it sounded like. They passed through a series of arched corridors. He supposed they might have been parts of the old subway system, but there seemed to be too many of them, and too close together. The walls were also tiled in gray-black squares, meant to give them a uniform appearance, but the tiling couldn’t quite overcome the makeshift feel of the place. He sensed that they were very, very deep.

A boy of about ten appeared from nowhere, approached the group, and bowed. The angry man, whose name Shelton remembered was Gage, wrote something down on a slip of paper, and ordered the boy to bring it to Moseth. The boy nodded, casting a rueful glance at Shelton as he did so. He sped off down the winding corridors.

The further they walked, the more Shelton wanted to break and run, and yet the more certain he felt that he wouldn’t be able to find his way out. A dozen turns later, they came upon a short corridor. It terminated in a large cage inset in the wall. Shelton’s heart began to pound, but one of the red-robes slid apart the cage doors, and stepped in himself. The others followed, shuffling inside until there was little breathing space. They held their torches above their heads. The doors clanged shut again. The cage shuddered, then began descending.

The lift shaft had a musty smell, just shy of unpleasant. Through the metal grating floor, he saw that the shaft continued downward without apparent end. It was a depressing sight. They stopped, and the group exited the lift, and parted to let Shelton be pushed to the front. They closed ranks behind him, and the march continued.

Now the walls were wider, and faced with white stone on which the torchlight danced brilliantly. There was an authority to these stones, as if he were inside a monument, or a state building. The group came to a crossway, and turned left. A short ways ahead was a door of burnished wood. It was beautiful, but entirely out of place. Gage handed him off the to one of the red-robes, produced a key, and opened the door. The room they entered was large, and somewhat rounded. Twenty yards across from the entryway was a large raised judge’s bench, behind which sat a tall man in ornate blue robes and a golden mask. Below him on the floor was a simple three-legged stool. The red-robes planted Shelton there, then stepped back in eerie unison. They raised their torches above their heads, and began to hum. The figure behind the bench craned over and looked down on him, like an elaborate gargoyle. Shelton felt queasy. The judge made a rumbling sound, clearing his throat. There was a moment of silence before he spoke.

“Sarah and Faro claim you rescued them.”

It wasn’t delivered as a question, and Shelton didn’t know if he should answer. He said nothing.

“I know who you are,” continued the man. “I know what you did for that woman in the store too. But that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

He seemed to wait on Shelton now. The Butcher was feeling a bit tongue tied. There was tension in the air, and Shelton didn’t know what was expected of him.

“So,” continued the other, after the pause, “the real question is why you’re here. Why now? We’ve been watching you. We would have brought you down eventually, if you’d fit the bill, but you managed to find your own way down, without an invitation. That looks suspicious. What would you do, Shelton, if you were in our position?”

Shelton didn’t know what he would do if were in the man’s position for the simple reason that he didn’t know what was going on, or where he was.

He stared directly at the judge’s bench, because it was halfway between the floor and his interlocutor. The silence stretched on, and no more questions were forthcoming. Deeply uncomfortable, he had to say something.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, shrugging. ”Coming here was an innocent mistake.”

Someone scoffed behind him. It was Gage. The figure above waved him to silence, then returned his attention to Shelton.

“You should know that if you can’t give a good account for yourself, we’ll be forced to deal with you. Under the circumstances, given your rescue of the young people, it won’t be death. Just the Hole.”

Shelton’s heart began pounding. He broke out in gooseflesh. Surely there was something in his communications training that would help him defuse the situation. But he was used to smooth-talking rooms full of half-dead office mates, or crafting vanilla prose for public release. He had a feeling that that sort of thing might be very unhelpful in this situation.

“What-” his voice cracked, and he tried again. “What do you want to know about me?”

The figure leaned over the bench. Shelton could sense the red robes leaning in as well.

“Are you an impostor, or are you really the Two?”

Shelton frowned. “Eh…pardon me?”

Gage stepped alongside him, hand raised to strike him for insolence.

“Are you the Two?” repeated the man above, holding up a staying hand toward Gage.

Shelton had no idea what the question meant. His gut told him that lying, and being found out, would be a terrible idea. He racked his brain for a solution, then settled on one that seemed promising.

“That…” he began, in a mysterious voice, “remains to be seen.”

The judge inclined his head. Though his face was hidden, Shelton sensed the some change in the man’s demeanor. A tentative hope, maybe.

“How is it,” continued the other, after a pause,“that you knew to come to Prospect Park? How is it that you were there at just the right time to come to their rescue?”

Maybe it was his implants, but Shelton had the sudden, unnerving sense that the figure behind the bench was engaging in a kind of theater. Not for him, but for the others around him. There was a right answer here, but he didn’t know what. He had come to Prospect Park in hopes of observing criminal activity which would validate his claims about an Underground led by the Butcher. He’d invented the Butcher out of whole cloth to get himself out of a jam. Then he’d accidentally become him, long enough to recognize the folly of it, and had tried to get back in time to erase the evidence. He’d only come to Prospect Park to find evidence of the threat he’d invented. By chance, he’d found what he was looking for, and he might have hauled the youths in for questioning, and added a notch to his professional belt, were it not for his decision to intervene on the teenagers’ behalf. Then he’d run with them, because it was the best worst option, given what he’d done. None of that sounded very much like something the Two would do, whatever the Two was supposed to be. But if he could play the role of the Butcher, perhaps he could be the Two too.

He glanced around him. The room was circular, white-walled, and clean, like some ancient temple. Indeed, it smelled slightly of incense, and he now saw there were images painted at intervals along the walls. These were scenes of human life before the Plague; before the IHI. Images of children playing outside, passing a ball between them, reckless of the possibility of infection. An orchestra, and a crowd of densely-packed observers. A movie theater. A woman in Central Park throwing a frisbee to her dog. No one in the images wore a mask; not even the dogs! There was something obscene, something titillating about it all. He wondered if they let children in this room. Still, the images tugged at his soul. He couldn’t stop staring. It was a little embarrassing.

The blue-robed figure cleared his throat, and Shelton remembered where he was. The real possibility of being shot, or locked away in something called the Hole, sobered him. Some answer was expected, but he’d no idea what form it should take. Critical Theory Theory was not helping. So, in a sudden flash of inspiration, he decided to do something utterly novel. He would just tell the facts as they were. The facts, unvarnished by any narrative. He might as well. Shelton looked up at the speaker.

“Look,” began, then faltered.

Everyone was leaned in, waiting. He told all, every last detail, down to his own motivations, so far as he honestly knew them. The more he told, the more damning it sounded. Yet there was a certain catharsis in mere facts. Without any rules or expectations about what the truth was supposed to be, the facts had to speak for themselves. It was agonizing, brutal, raw. It felt like dying, and coming to life at the same time. It felt good.

When he’d finished speaking, there was a great silence. Shelton kept waiting for someone to drag him off. To his surprise, the blue-robed figure took off his mask, and set it down on the judge’s bench. He had a long white beard, and deep gray eyes that sparkled like lakes. The old man’s face was immediately familiar, but Shelton couldn’t place it. A tear ran down his interlocutor’s cheek.

“It’s really you,” he said.

Shelton stood perfectly still, fearing even to nod.

“You are He! You’re the Two we’ve been waiting for!”

Behind him, Gage scoffed again.

“Oh, come on, Moseth! That’s what you said about the last one! And the two before that!”

“The three before that, you mean,” said another voice.

“Actually, there’ve been four Twos,” said one of the women, “if you don’t count this one”

“No,” shouted yet another, “there was only ever one Two.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

“Silence!” said Moseth, putting up a withered hand.

He stood, and descended from his perch. Even on the floor, he was quite tall. The old man closed the space between them, and reached out to take his hands. Shelton thanked God that he was still wearing his gloves. He could only imagine how many germs this fellow from the subway was carrying. Suddenly, Moseth knelt before him. He took Shelton’s hands in his own, and kissed them. There was a sound of shifting bodies behind him, and Shelton turned to see every red-robed figure on his knees.

What the heck have I gotten myself into? he thought.

There were sounds of weeping. One-by-one, each red priest and priestess hobbled over, still on his knees, and kissed Shelton’s hands.

“Have mercy on us! We didn’t know!” said the woman who’d first rescued him from Gage.

Gage’s furious eyes bore into Shelton through the slits in his golden mask, but he knelt also, and said nothing. Shelton was so surprised by it all, it was some time before he realized they were waiting on him for permission to rise. He told them to stand. They did, but slowly, as if no one wished to be the first. A dozen red wraiths awaited him in silence.

“I have indeed come to you at last,” he said. “But it’s been a long journey, and now I am tired.”

That was true enough. His body still ached from being pressed beyond its limits against the BSers. The sense of relief that came with the knowledge that he would not be killed or imprisoned also brought fatigue in its wake. The realization that these mole people had taken him for some kind of Messiah made him dizzy. He needed to go off somewhere, and sit down. Maybe find someone who could tell him what he was supposed to be. As if in answer, Moseth took him by the arm.

“Come with me, Your Hero-ness. And, if you will permit it, I will tell you of our needs, and of how long we’ve waited for your coming.”

Shelton nodded, a long ponderous, kingly motion.

“Yes,” he said. “That pleases me.”

The red robes bowed, and began to trickle out the room. Moseth led Shelton away.

II.

Moseth led Shelton down one long corridor after another, saying nothing. There were dim rectangular lights at intervals along the wall. Crude wiring ran between them. Shelton tried to twice to start up a conversation. Both times he was quickly hushed. He gave his attention to the walls themselves.

Sometimes there were breaks in the tunnel, dark openings where the missing tile revealed gaping holes. Most of the gaps were filled in with concrete and boards; not so much full repairs, as a quickly laid barriers. He wondered what could have made the holes, and what the barriers held back. One gouge remained open, and the dim lights from the main corridors revealed a roughly-carved tunnel going out perpendicularly into the darkness.

“These walls have ears,” whispered Moseth, turning to him with a grave expression. “And sometimes more than that.”

Moseth put a finger to his lips. Shelton let himself be led to a place where the main corridor stopped. At it end was a metal door with a wheel-shaped latch, like something he’d seen in Immersafilms about submarines. Moseth applied his aged frame to the circular latch, and the door finally opened with a loud creak. He ushered Shelton inside, staring nervously into the corridor behind them. No sooner was Shelton through, then Moseth slammed it shut, spun the handle, and engaged several interior locks. He flicked a switch on the wall. The dim light in the room flickered, then went very low. Moseth put his finger to his lips again, and signaled for Shelton to stay where he was.

The old man parted his robes, and drew a revolver from somewhere near his chest. Then he took out a flashlight. It was a cobbled-together thing. It gave out good light long enough for him to sweep most of the room, but the light began fading before he’d finished his sweep. Still holding his revolver out, he tossed the flashlight to Shelton.

“Turn the crank quickly.”

Shelton did as he was told, and the light came back strong.

“Shine it along the wall, left to right.”

Shelton did so, slowly picking out the details of the room. Its walls were metal, and Shelton would have thought them impenetrable, but Moseth didn’t relax until they’d finished the sweep. The old man sighed.

“Just needed to be sure,” he said. “We don’t run electricity into this chamber. The lights run on a car battery, and it needs replacing. Now just keep cranking, and give me a moment to light the lanterns.”

Moseth went about the room, putting flame to the wicks of several oil lamps. When the place was sufficiently illuminated, he went back to wall and flicked off the switch.

“Don’t want to run it down,” he said in explanation.

He indicated a table with two chairs. Shelton sat, and Moseth took his place across from him. He eyed Shelton for a moment, and drummed his fingers on the small table, as if he were torn over some decision. Finally he sighed, and nodded to himself.

“It’s the only way to be sure,” he said, to no one in particular. Then, as if he needed more convincing: “Gage, and some of the others will never accept you, unless you’re submitted to the test.”

Shelton frowned.

“Test?” he asked, more sheepishly than he’d intended to.

Moseth nodded. “Take off that tyrant’s helm. Let me see your face.”

Shelton did as he was told, despite an inner certainty that this underground world was crawling with deadly germs. No sooner had he removed his gas mask then the smell of the place hit him with full force. His air filter, it turned out, had been sparing him the worst of it. He wretched involuntarily.

“Oh, come now. It’s not that bad. Least it isn’t if you spend enough time down here. And this room is cut off. There’s not much air circulation.”

Shelton’s eyes watered, but he nodded politely.

“What…what’s the test?” he managed.

“The final proof that you are what you say you are,” said Moseth. “That you are the Two.”

With that the man reached under the table, and pulled out a drawer. From it he took a small black box. It looked like a tiny sea chest. He opened the little box, and turned it to show its contents. Inside were two pills.

“Choose carefully,” said the old man.

Shelton twitched. “What’s in them?”

“Maybe truth,” shrugged Moseth. “Maybe something a little sharper. There are two pills: the red pill, and the dead pill.”

“But they’re both red,” protested Shelton.

Moseth shrugged.

“Well, it would be too easy otherwise. Take the red pill — I mean the correct red pill — and I’ll tell you the truth. The whole truth, about yourself, your mission, and the ones we oppose. Take the other pill, and you’ll have a few moments of euphoria, followed by a very painful death by asphyxiation.”

Shelton thought of knocking the table over and running. Then he recalled the endless corridors, and the general hopelessness of his situation. A fifty-fifty chance of survival was better than the certainty of death that awaited him outside. He took a deep breath, and snatched up the pill on the right. Without giving himself a moment to think, he popped it into his mouth, and swallowed.

Moseth watched him with barely contained excitement. Shelton waited in silence to learn his fate. When, after a few minutes, he’d not died, he let out a deep sigh.

“You have chosen…wisely.”

Shelton concealed his profound relief.

“And now,” continued Moseth, “it is time.” He cleared his throat, and nodded to himself. “Many years ago,” he began, “the human race was free. Children played outside without constant supervision. Men and women went about in public, and mingled together in the open air, or indoors — in shops, bars, churches, parks — without interference. Without the need for nanos. If you can believe it, without even wearing masks. There were no passes to show, and no curfews. Then along came the Plague.”

Shelton nodded. This was standard stuff.

“It was a strange one, as plagues go. Spreading quickly, sparing most, but killing others so fast there was hardly time for a diagnosis. The governments of the world could not agree on a common strategy for containment. Then, at a critical moment, the organization called LIVES appeared from nowhere. The response it advocated was both aggressive and permanent: a health monitoring regime that spanned every class and nation. At first there seemed little chance that LIVES’ extreme position would be adopted, but, with the introduction of the International Health Initiative, what seemed impossible soon became the law of every land. And now, here we are, fifty years later, with an organization legally classified as private running all of public life. We are all under the health regime now. It tendrils extend into every aspect of human life. Its Behavioral Soldiers, its surveillance apparatus, and its nanotechnology combine to form a perfect system of control. A system, I should note, that would be hard to dismantle, even if its masters wanted to.”

Shelton nodded again, agreeing with the summary.

“But something has been lost, Shelton. In the quest to make man safe, we’ve also made human life antiseptic. The human face, so beautiful, so expressive, now hides forever behind medical masks. The right to move about freely, to buy, and sell, and assemble, and think as men and women…all of it comes with a great proviso, a big black asterisk. And, at the bottom, a message in legalese: all rights to be understood as defined by the terms of the International Health Initiative.”

Shelton tried not to sigh. He’d heard this sort of thing before. Not discussed openly, of course — that would be social butchery, and subject to a nano-fine — but here and there, at odd times, and in odd places. Nostalgia for the way things used to be was, perhaps, normal. But it was also useless. Nobody loved the IHI, but the alternative was sudden, random death for a not-insignificant percentage of the world population. His skepticism must have shown on his face, for there was a glimmer in Moseth’s eyes.

“Shelton,” he said, in a near whisper, “what if I told you, that the crisis was over?”

Shelton began to laugh, until he saw the man was serious.

“What if I told you,” continued the other, “that a reasonable degree of immunity has been achieved? Not one hundred percent, of course, but close to that. What if I told you that you are now as likely to die of the Plague as the average man once was of the flu?”

Shelton frowned. Now he couldn’t hide his unbelief.

“And,” said Moseth, his voice rising in volume, “what if I told you that LIVES knows this? That the organization for which you work has now only one mission: to suppress the truth that its existence is no longer necessary?”

Shelton stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed. The man’s assertion was so disturbing on its face, Shelton thought it was probably illegal even to think it. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt queasy. The very idea that there was no international health crisis put his mind into a frenzy of anxiety. Crisis was the norm; normality was the scary thing. Frankly, he found it downright offensive! These were unthinkable thoughts, and he couldn’t process them. Shelton realized he was in the first stages of a panic attack.

“I…” he began, “I don’t think you should say that!”

It was all he could do to gasp the words out.

“No, you shouldn’t say that,” he repeated, nodding to himself.

Moseth reached out, and took his hand. Shelton tried not to recoil from the physical contact. He could practically see the germs that could be crawling from Moseth’ hand to his.

“Shelton,” said the old man, “we can say whatever we want. Whatever we think is true. Words alone, propositions, even false ones, cannot by themselves harm anyone.”

“No!” protested Shelton. “No! Please stop! I can’t consider something so awful as the world going back to normal!”

Moseth patted his hand. “Is it really so awful, Shelton? That the crisis has passed, and that the human race can be human again? If it wants to? If it’s only give a chance to do so?”

Shelton squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head back and forth.

“No, no, no. I’m not list-en-ing to yo-ou,” he said, in a sing-song-voice. “Everything is not fine. Everything is not okay. We are on the brink of disaster. We are on the brink of disaster. LIVES cares! LIVES cares!”

He recited the mantra again and again to himself, comforted by its familiarity.

“Lives cares—”

“—False!” cut-in Moseth. “And do you know how I know?”

Moseth stood, and towered over him. He glowered down at Shelton, his face an open challenge. Shelton didn’t want to look at it. Human faces, unmasked, were extremely intense and anxiety-inducing under the best of circumstances. Moseth looked like some wild wizard from a forgotten age. His eyes were fireballs. His mouth was a vicious sword. Again, the thought struck Shelton that he’d seen that terrible face before. Perhaps in a nightmare.

“I’ll tell you anyway, Shelton. I can prove the Plague is over.”

Shelton looked up at him, terrified at what he might hear, yet unable to deny his interest in the provocative assertion that the world might not be in a state of near disaster.

“Fine then,” he said, pouting. “Prove it.”

Moseth pointed at himself.

“I am LIVES,” he said.

Shelton shook his head, confused.

“I am Moseth Supposeth! I am that same Moseth who founded LIVES, and who helped to develop the IHI. I am the architect of this New World Order, Shelton.”

Shelton leaned back, and then promptly fell out of his chair. Neither the loud crash, nor the fall, were enough to clear his head. He stood, and retreated from the man, unable to look away from those flaming eyes. Now he realized why this robed figure had looked familiar to him. He’d seen that face before. A gaunt, haunted face from old newsfeeds. To be sure, it had been years, but once this man’s face had been a household image. The Moseth he remembered from history was un-bearded, and his hair was black rather than shock white. Yet it was undoubtedly the same man.

“You! You!” was all Shelton could get out.

“Yes, Shelton. You know. You remember, don’t you? My image and name may have been wiped from the histories and the feeds, suppressed as misinformation — as if a mere fact could ever be a deception — but they cannot take away your own memory. In times like these, memory is all we have.”

Shelton trembled. He needed to sit down. He righted his chair, and slumped down heavily on it. Moseth did not sit.

“I will spare you all the details,” continued the man, his tone calmer. “Suffice to say that a decade after we passed the IHI, my colleagues and I found that the Plague was in decline. Herd immunity had been achieved, and each new variant was weaker than the one that came before. There were still deaths, but these were rare, and fell within the statistical norms for common ailments. In short, we had achieved success. Further experiments proved definitively that the measures we’d taken no longer served a purpose. Indeed, some of our strictest policies had actually prolonged the problem. In any event, now we could end the permanent crisis. We could step out again into the light, unmasked and unafraid.”

Shelton shook his head in confusion.

“But if that’s true, why is there still a LIVES? Why hasn’t the IHI been rolled back?”

Moseth nodded, anticipating the question.

“I tried, of course. But it soon became clear that the structure I’d helped create had developed a life of its own. It had achieved a deep, embedded directionality; a whole network of associations and priorities. It was like a,” — he laughed, and nodded as if in sudden understanding — “like a virus, in fact. Like the Plague itself. LIVES had become its own living-dead thing, a set of bureaucratic instructions. A self-perpetuating pseudo-organism. And, Shelton, it had no intention of being dismantled.”

Shelton covered his eyes with his hands, as if that would keep Moseth’s words from entering his mind. His breath came shallow. He really was having a panic attack.

“Why…why should I believe any of that!” he finally said. “Maybe you’re lying! Maybe you’re not Dr. Supposeth. You could be a social butcher who just looks like him. You…”

But he couldn’t finish. He knew in his gut that the man was not lying. Still, he found the facts impossible to accept. To his surprise, he was fighting back sobs. A firm hand came to rest on his shoulder. He look up, and Moseth’s face was grave, but kind.

“Shelton,” said the old man. “Here’s the proof. There are tens and thousands of us down below. We’ve made a world of our own, here in the tunnels of New York. A temporary world, to be sure. One never meant for man. But a clever one, and close one. We live on top of each other down here. Aside form this ceremonial dress, we live unmasked and without nano treatments. And, within normal variations, we are healthy. Even under these limited circumstances, no one is dying from the Plague.”

Shelton looked up at him, shocked. Moseth squeezed his shoulder, and repeated himself. “No one is dying from the Plague. No one! Okay, well…some people are still dying from the plague. But, for all intents and purposes, no one is dying from the plague.”

Shelton searched his face for evidence of a lie. As nearly as he could tell, the man believed what he was saying. He scrambled for a refutation, and grasped at the first idea that came to him.

“You must be getting immunity second hand!” he said. “Yes, after all, you have to get food somewhere. And all the food is nano-processed. So you’re just benefiting from the Agricultural Health Initiative, and-”

Moseth was shaking his head.

“A reasonable conjecture,” he said, “but incorrect. We have our own food sources. Miles and miles of underground fields, grown under solar lamps, and fueled by power drawn from the heat deep within the earth, or siphoned off the grid. Indeed, we are not as simple as all of this,” he gestured around the room, “would suggest. It’s just that we save our best technology for our food and heat production. Given the vast spying apparatus you serve, Shelton, it would be foolish for us to run any device that could be hacked or cracked. It behooves us to live simply, but we are not without resources, below or…above.”

Something about the way Moseth spoke the last word drew Shelton’s attention. Was the old man saying that his people had allies in other places? Moseth watched him puzzle it out, then nodded.

“I think you follow me,” said Moseth. “We are not working alone.”

“But what are you working for?” said Shelton. “What’s your endgame?”

Moseth frowned. “I should have thought that would be obvious. The Underground Abattoir…the people you call “butchers,” wants only to restore normal human existence on earth. An existence without masks, and without the constant mode of crisis under which men and women will allow practically any outrage against their own laws, provided it is done in the name of safety. We want, in short, to bring about the end of LIVES. No, not those lives. LIVES lives.”

Shelton wiped a hand across his brow. Visions of insanity passed before his eyes. Men and woman kissing without lip covers. Children playing in the rain, and getting all caked in mud. Unlicensed pickup basketball. Mass hysteria! But — gee whiz! — it was kind of appealing.

“Come, on,” he said. “How are you going to pull that off? After all, people may not like the IHI, but they won’t just give it up either.”

Moseth nodded, and finally retook his seat across from Shelton. He laced his fingers together, and pursed his lips, thinking.

“Quite right,” he said. “LIVES was not built overnight. It took many years of social programming before we could really achieve control. It will take a similar process of unlearning to ween men and woman off of it. It’ll be a slow, piecemeal process. And that’s where you come in.”

“I…” began Shelton, “What?”

Moseth nodded, and pressed on. “Perception is reality. Data, facts, evidence…it’s not enough. It’s never been enough. You know this, Mr. Simpson. You’re particularly suited to appreciate this. One isolated man or woman with nothing to lose might resist a social change. Small groups might do so. But, at the level of the common wheel, there’s always a profound asymmetry between those seeking uniformity, and those who only wish to be left in peace. The former, the true believers, may actually be in the minority, but if they can craft a compelling narrative, especially one buttressed by social guilt, and taboos, then the unorganized majority — a mere aggregation of isolated individuals — will bend to their will. The people can be made to hate and fear the holdouts among them, or at least induced not to imitate them. Indeed, a great many people use reason not as a tool for discovering truth, but only for getting by. They live in their bellies, Shelton. They live to be led.”

Shelton cleared his throat loudly.

“If what you say is true,” he interjected, “then you can’t win. You can’t shape the narrative without an apparatus like LIVES has.”

Moseth smiled. “Unless…?”

The old man let the word float, waiting for Shelton to draw another conclusion. Shelton thought for a moment, then shrugged. Moseth looked disappointed with him.

“Unless,” continued Moseth, “there is a way to re-craft the same narrative. To use it against itself. Unless we can force LIVES to prove its own absurdity, while at the same time, taking out the very means it uses to demonstrate its necessity.”

“What are you saying?” asked Shelton.

“A two-pronged approach,” said the old man. “One in which you will play a central role. You are the man of two worlds, Shelton. The trusted insider, the witch-hunter, who will also turn the weapons of witch-hunting on the hunters themselves. You will become — you already are — the Two.”

Shelton stumbled around in his mind for a way to ask the question he’d been dying to ask.

“How do you know that I’m really the Two?” he asked.

What the heck is the Two? he meant. Moseth nodded, expecting the question. He cleared his throat, and looked off in a dreamy way.

“It is said that one day a man will arise who stands in both worlds; the one above and the one below. With his feet in two camps, he will work to end the tyranny of unreasonable safety. He will strike fear into the hearts of the enemy, even as he walks among them disguised as one of their own. He will lead the armies of the free, and bring about the downfall of the health tyrants. And yet he will save many of the deceived.”

Shelton wrinkled his brow.

“Where does this prophecy come from? Who made it?”

Moseth looked around evasively, and began whistling, sing-song, as if he hadn’t heard the question. When Shelton’s eyes continued to bore into him, he chuckled nervously, and lifted his hands, palms out.

“What do you want me to say?” he averred. “Perception is reality. You are the Two if everyone believes you’re the Two. And if you believe it. Of course, I invented the prophecy. Just like you invented the Butcher. What the heck does that matter? Does it necessarily make it untrue?”

Shelton frowned. “But how can I believe it if I know you made it up?”

Again, Moseth looked disappointed.

“Well,” he said, “are you a man who straddles two worlds? And haven’t you created a persona, the Butcher, whom you’ve also embodied, and who strikes fear into the hearts of health police everywhere? And hasn’t someone recently supercharged you with fighting prowess, and given you the ability to control your nanos?”

“Uh…sure, but-”

“—Well, there you have it!” said Moseth. “That’s the definition of the Two, so you’re the Two.”

Shelton sighed. Part of him had actually been hoping that there was a real, mystical entity that would come into the world, and turn things upside down. Make things different, for a change. The thought that he was this being — though it tickled his ego — did not seem particularly wonderful, or even fun. It sounded like a lot of work. Then he thought of another objection.

“Look, Moseth, I’m not even supposed to be here. I came out to Prospect Park to round up health violators so I could charge them with being members of an underground that I invented, and so that I could accuse them of being known associates of a Butcher that I also invented. Instead I got in a fist fight with a BS squad. Again. I’m riding a tiger by the tail here.”

Moseth nodded. “You need evidence of the Underground. Arrests, and that sort of thing. Otherwise you won’t have the cover you need to do your real work.”

“Which is?” interjected Shelton.

“We’ll get to that in a second. But as for your claims about inventing the Underground, clearly you’re mistaken. The Underground Abattoir is a vast and powerful network. And, by the way, are you quite sure you invented the Butcher? Maybe you created him because you knew he must exist, and then you became him because you were him, even though you didn’t know that you were who you were.”

“Uh…”

“But as for the second problem,” continued Moseth. “I have a solution. I can tell you just how to get the arrests you need to buttress your assertions about the Underground and the Butcher. That’ll take care of your credibility problem. It makes you a hero for them. Meanwhile, we’ll work immediately to give them a credibility problem. We’ll drive a wedge into the one, great crack in their edifice.”

“What’s that again?” said Shelton, fearing he already knew the answer.

“Why, their greatest instrument of control, of course. Those little ingenious devices by which they track us, and medicate us. Shelton, we’re going to destroy the nano factories!”

Shelton made an odd sound somewhere between a scoff and a shriek. It sounded like he was sneezing through his cheeks.

“You…you can’t!”

“That’s right,” said Moseth. “But you can. We have the blueprints, and some of the pass-codes. We can get you in far enough to fight your way to the Central Fabrication Computers. They’re kept offline, so that the hardware itself can never be hacked, even if the distribution network is. But if someone gets in there and destroys the fabricators themselves, it’ll set LIVES back years.”

Shelton stood up, and began to pace. In truth, he had no particular dislike for LIVES, or for the health initiatives. True, he couldn’t stand the BSers, and he felt a certain nostalgia for a world that he imagined had proceeded it — he was almost too young to remember those days — but this world was still the only one he knew. Even if, in the abstract, he agreed that the Plague had taken something vital from mankind, that didn’t necessarily mean it was something that people still had the power to get back. And there were other problems.

For one, the nanos were the indispensable means of health monitoring and medicine delivery. It wasn’t just the plague-blockers. The nanos delivered all kinds of vital drugs, and kept every immune system up to date without the need for hundreds of shots. They monitored cancer, and other deadly emergent conditions, and had the power to arrest many of these maladies in their place. Even if the plague was no longer a great threat, nano-dependency was now the norm — at least above ground. Surely many people would suffer and die in the short-term, until something else replaced the existing system.

He shook his head. “I can’t do that, Moseth. There would be health fallout.”

“Not so!” said Moseth, quickly. “We’ve thought of that. I told you, we have our own manufacturing. How do you suppose we’ve stayed so healthy down here? We have the capacity to make the drugs that people really need, and we have the manpower to distribute them.”

Now Shelton really did scoff. “Enough for the whole world?”

“Heavens, no!” said Moseth. “I thought I’d made myself clear. We don’t intend to dismantle LIVES, or its parallels organizations, throughout the whole world. We only mean to make it irrelevant here in New York. Others must fight their own local battles. We intend to claim one plot in a vast battlefield.”

Moseth stood, and began to walk back and forth, his voice rising to a crescendo. “Others will see what we have done, and imitate it. We need only disrupt things here long enough for the truth about the Plague to come out. And when the initial panic subsides, it will turn to outrage against these smiling taskmasters. And, one-by-one, their strongholds will fall. Their sacred cows will be slaughtered before them, and the blood — metaphorical blood, of course — will run through the streets! And we will do this not for ourselves, but for all of the people! We will free ourselves for the sake of the whole human race!”

Moseth breathed heavily. He’d worked himself up into a frenzy, and his eyes were red-rimmed fireballs. Shelton took a step back, feeling uneasy. Worse, he was deeply affected by the little speech, which made him uneasier still.

“But, Moseth,” he said. “What about my other mission? I mean, how I am I supposed to make them believe that I’m fighting the underground unless I actually bring people in from an underground?”

Moseth nodded. “Yes, exactly!”

“Well?” said Shelton.

“Well…you just bring in people from the other underground?” said Moseth.

“Umm…what the heck is that?”

Moseth shook his head, then looked at him exasperated. “Surely, Shelton, you noticed the breeches in the walls on our way here?”

Shelton nodded. The holes had given him the creeps.

“Smellies, we call them,” explained Moseth, matter-of-factly. “Though they have their own name for themselves.”

“Who are they?” asked Shelton, swallowing.

“They call themselves the More Locks.”

Shelton laughed. “Ah. That’s an old Immersafilm, right? H.G. Wells-”

“No, no. Not Morlocks. More Locks. You know, the filthy, unwashed barbarians who live in underground and refuse to cut their hair.”

Shelton shook his head. Moseth made an exasperated sound.

“You mean to tell me you’ve never heard of them? Well, I suppose not. They live even further down than we do. A bunch of extremists, let me tell you. Always tunneling into our territory, stealing our food, and trying to drag the children off.”

Shelton grimaced. “That’s…that’s horrible.”

“Well, they’re not exactly making new recruits to their way of life, so… They live in squalor, and pass their lives in the dark. Like a bunch of goblins. Excellent night vision, though. Now, you just capture of few of those every month, and bring them to your leaders. That’ll make your case, believe me. The More Locks are dirty, dangerous, and boy do they smell. Heck, you’ll be doing the whole world a favor.”

Shelton closed his eyes. For a time, he fell silent, wondering how he’d found himself in this situation. All his adult life, there’d been a part of him that had wanted to do something other than craft beautiful baloney for an uncritical public. There was a certain intoxication in the idea of turning a new leaf, of striking against the boring and banal. Yet he felt queasy. Despite his own hazy principles, there did seem something wrong about blowing up the nanocrafters, and bringing in captive underground feral people, just to help his cover. And, no matter what Moseth said, he was sure the loss of nanos, even locally, would mean unanticipated deaths, and unexpected consequences. If working in a pseudo-governmental bureaucracy had taught him anything, it was that there were always unexpected consequences. Even assuming he could get away with it all, he wasn’t entirely sure he should. And, since he was, by his own admission, a complete coward, that was a good enough reason for him to bow out of this vigilante business. He breathed deeply, and looked up at Moseth.

“Look, thank you for taking me into your confidence,” said Shelton. “There’s a lot to admire about what you want to do. But the fact is, I’m not going to help you blow up a nano factory. And I’m not going to haul in your subterranean competitors, no matter how smelly or anti-social they are. Now, if you’ll kindly lead me to the exit…”

Moseth laughed, and pounded the table. Shelton didn’t see what was funny.

“Oh, young man. I promise you that you are going to do just those things.”

Shelton felt a tightening in his chest.

“I really don’t feel comfortable—”

Moseth shook his head, smiling.

“Shelton, Shelton. Did you think I went to all the effort of making you the Two, only to take no as an answer?”

“What do you…what do you mean?”

Moseth tsked at him.

“You disappoint me,” the old man said. “You’re dense, for one thing. Do you think it was an accident that you went to Quid, and that everything was oh-so-conveniently shut down long enough for you to hide your nano traces? Do you think he — sorry, Quid — supercharges the glands of just any old mid-level cubicle-squatter at the Brooklyn Lives?”

Shelton took a step back. His jaw hung open.

“I told you, Mr. Simpson. I have friends in high places. I’m a scientist, not a gambler, or a prophet. I not only invented the Two. I invented you, in a manner of speaking. And Quid put more than Taekwondo in your brain. He put a scramble-switch in their too.”

Moseth reached into his robes, and withdrew a small rectangular object, like an immerser remote. He waved it at Shelton.

“Yes, my nervous friend. You’ve got something in there that can make your gray matter into a chunk of glitchy glue. Me? I’ve got the other end the string.”

Shelton the Butcher stepped away, as if by doing so he could escape. Moseth looked on with a mixture of pity and sadness.

“I don’t prefer this, but the world needs a hero. You’re going to be a hero, young man. Whether you like it or not.”

Shelton nodded. His throat was dry.

“When do I start,” he said, in a small, strained voice.

As if in answer, the keys rattled outside the heavy metal door, and the bolts slid back. The wheel-latch turned, and a group of men and women dressed in the style of elite BS shock troops stepped into the room. Between them, bound in shackles, three pitiable figures, long-haired and half-wild in appearance, shivered on the floor, their arms raised to block the out the room’s dim light. Shelton looked away from them in, feeling a pang of guilt.

Examining their captors, he felt sure they were the very same red-robed figures he’d met earlier. Moseth smiled at them all as if nothing were amiss. He turned to Shelton.

“There are your prizes; your proof of the dangerous Underground. And there, my Butcher, is your strike team. You start tonight.”

© 2021 Joseph Breslin All Rights Reserved