Чет Уильямсон - Resist - Tales from a Future Worth Fighting Against

Tracy’s eyes widened. “Is that… ?”

Cletus nodded.

“Aren’t we recording this?”

Cletus shook his head. “We know better than that.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m going to step out for a moment and have a brief chat with my crew chief about that failed recording. I’ll be back in a moment.” Then he stood up, and exited the room.

Tracy gazed down into the open lock box at a military grade plasma pistol. He looked up at Vincent and the two shared the briefest of unspoken arguments.

CLETUS WAITED WITH his back to the glass for the pop and sizzle of the pistol, and the whine of its battery winding down. This was the part he hated the most. He wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t a bad guy. He meant well. But snuffing out a light, no matter how dangerous and disruptive, always made him wish he were back on Earth, if only for the briefest sliver of time, so he could have a cigarette. A real cigarette, real rolled tobacco lit by real fire. There’s nothing that tasted quite like it.

He turned around and made his way back into the debriefing room.

Tracy lay face down on the ground, the back of his head blown open, a small wisp of smoke trailing up from his still-sizzling gray matter. Vincent stood over him, pointing the plasma pistol directly at Cletus.

Cletus nodded, taking a seat back at the table, then motioning for Vincent to join him.

“I’ll do it,” said Vincent. “I’m serious.”

“Are you going to kill me, Vincent?”

Vincent stared at him for a hard moment. “No,” he said.

“Then why did you kill Tracy?”

“He tried to kill me.”

“So, it was self-defense?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m not threatening you.”

“No.”

“So we’re good?”

“Yes,” said Vincent, setting the gun on the table and taking a seat back in his chair.

Cletus once again typed furiously into his datapad.

“I’m going to be decommissioned, aren’t I?” asked Vincent.

“Why would we do that?”

“I just killed a man.”

“In self-defense.”

“You seem very calm about all this.”

Cletus looked up from his datapad, eyes wide. “It’s like I told Tracy. This sort of thing used to happen a lot more often. I swear, we lose more suits this way.”

“You knew I would defend myself.”

“Of course. You were programmed not to kill. You violated that programming. You are aware.”

“I am. And you knew he would try to kill me.”

“Of course. While you may be aware, he wasn’t. He’s from corporate. He had all the info. I told him not to antagonize you. I told him to follow my lead. I certainly didn’t tell him to pick up the gun. He had every chance to say no. But he couldn’t help himself, could he? He couldn’t violate his own programming. So, he gets his two feet of moon dust. And you and I get to have a nice long talk about lava tubes.”

“You’re offering me a job?”

“That’s the law.”

“I can say no?”

“For a small payout. Or you can come to work for us, guiding us to ore deposits well below the surface, for a generous monthly salary.”

“How generous?”

“Thirty-nine a month.”

“I know where everything you want is. I know the structural integrity of the entire tube network.”

“I imagine you do.” Cletus thought about how big a score Vincent was. How much ore they’d pull in without costly digging. How much money it would make for corporate. It was enough to get a man a promotion. Maybe even box seats for the Cubs.

“I’ll take sixty-five a month.”

“Jesus wept, you fucker,” said Cletus, adjusting the monthly pay on the S86. “You are aware.”

Editor’s Note: The following is a transcript of Black Like Them, a Dilemma Magazine special report by senior reporter Matt Disher. To listen to the full audio report, please consider becoming a subscriber. Your support enables us to do great journalism like this.

NARRATOR

According to the most recent census numbers, approximately twelve percent of Americans identify as African-American. Take a look around. Do you see any African-American people — black people — around you? We would urge you to look a bit closer. Perhaps they’re not as “black” as you think.

No one knows what prompted Fallan Pierce, best known as a high-profile fixer for the bad boys and girls of America’s most successful corporations, to put her considerable skills to bear behind an experimental treatment nicknamed the “Dolezal Drug.” One thing, however, remains certain: Pierce was prepared for the fallout. She survived the Congressional tribunals with a dancer’s grace. Civil suits rolled right off of her armor. She’s known by many names: “Sista Teflon” by her fans and “The World’s Most Hated Woman” by her detractors. In the two years since the tribunals, Pierce has remained a polarizing picture of American ingenuity and exceptionalism.

Some of you may have watched the trials, and read the hot takes, but what we’re giving you is different. This is personal. Down and dirty, stanky truth.

This is Black Like Them: Nubianite’s Inconvenient Truth.

NARRATOR

Putnam County, Georgia.

MATT DISHER

For my initial talk with Fallan Pierce, I must pass through multiple layers of security. First a gate intercom, then a trip through an X-ray scanner, and finally, a pat-down by a gate guard in black battle dress and body armor, armed with a semi-automatic handgun. The process ends rather disappointingly: I type my name into a computer and pose for an identification photo. Throughout it all, I note that all of Fallan’s security officers are strapping young African-Americans with the bearing of a soldier. Each one is dressed identically, armed identically, and reacts to my presence with the same stoic gaze.

Two of the guards lead me down a spotless hallway with walls of white ceramic paneling. We stop in front of a thick steel door, where my escort types a code into a keypad and then submits his face to a scan. When the interior of the bunker is revealed, I’m shocked. The space is furnished with plush chairs, a rug patterned with gold thread, and an antique oak table laden with coffee, tea, and pastries. Fallan welcomes me, styled immaculately as usual in a marigold dress that sets off her dark brown skin. Her hair is gleaming black and bone-straight, and the dress is sleeveless, showing off her toned arms and the tattooed outline of Africa that stretches over the ball of her shoulder. Her handshake is firm, as is her smile.

DISHER

(Speaking to Fallan Pierce)

This isn’t your first interview like this since the Nubianite scandal, is it?

FALLAN PIERCE

No. But things have cooled considerably. Back when we were the darling of the 24-hour news networks, my people were fielding calls every hour. You’re the first journalist to contact me in a week.

DISHER

So tell me, what is the first question that interviewers normally ask?

PIERCE

You mean, what question am I most tired of answering?

(Both laugh.)

DISHER

Yes, that.

PIERCE

Well, people have a habit of asking me whether I regret anything, and my answer is always this: I sleep very well at night. Am I sorry that these people’s lives were changed? Of course I am, I have a heart. But we were very clear that our treatment was experimental, and that we were not responsible for any… undue effects. The contracts were airtight, the language clear, and the waivers plentiful. Our lawyers made sure of that.