(Photo by Ekaterina Bolovstova)

Smythe Hark stood near the back of the lab, watching with the other necrologists as Chester laid out his new idea for aiding in the task of managing multiple subjects. It was a problem none of them had anticipated since the previous uses for reanimation had only ever focused on making basic soldiers and thus didn’t need much cognitive capabilities. Their current process kept almost all of the subjects mental faculties intact and resulted in a much higher neural load on the one controlling them.

Kill him, Smythe thought and his body twitched ever so slightly before an overwhelming force smothered the impulse.

Chester hesitated in his presentation and his eyes darted over to Smythe ever so briefly. Was Chester even aware of what Smythe had been thinking or did he just feel the brief flicker of resistance? Smythe didn’t know. It was almost impossible for Smythe to even think about what had been done to him, let alone fight against it.

But he could resist. His thoughts weren’t fully under Chester’s control. He was far from being free, from having true agency in his actions, but the knowledge that there was still some sliver of willpower left in him was enough. In fact, the more people Chester was having to manage, the easier it was for Smythe to resist. That was why, as Chester finished his presentation and the necrologists got to work, Smythe felt a tinge of concern. It was only a tinge because Chester was focusing more on him now, muting his rebellious thoughts and feelings.

I can’t let him succeed, Smythe thought. If he succeeds…

He couldn’t finish the thought. Why was he so worried, anyway? If they were going to fix the situation with the fringe worlds and colonies then they would need a way to better manage all the people the Solar King would be putting under Chester’s control.

It won’t be the Solar King controlling them, Smythe thought. It’s Chester who controls us.

Was that such a bad thing, though? Chester wanted peace between the core and the fringe. He was working to keep the core from just crushing those who were trying to rebel. After all, no one wins in a war. There’s just those who survive. Better to sacrifice a few so that the majority can live better lives. That’s what Smythe and the other saboteurs believed, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t they be glad Chester was working to fix things between the core and the fringe? Even if it means having what was done to them also get done to the leaders in the fringe, wasn’t peace worth that sacrifice?

No

Smythe was sweating. His fists were clenched. He wanted to scream.

A hand came down and rested on his shoulder, making him jump in his chair and look around wildly for a moment. Chester was there, standing right behind him, a look of mild concern on his face.

“You’re tense, mister Hark,” Chester said.

“Just worried about the attackers,” Smythe said.

“I’m sure we’re safe here,” Chester said.

The conversation was a farce, as far as Smythe was concerned. He barely managed to say ‘attackers’ instead of ‘attacks’ but even that little victory cost him mentally, and for what? It wasn’t as though any of the necrologists would catch on that his concern was for the attacker’s well-being, rather than fear for his own safety.

The pressure on Smythe’s mind increased until he buckled, metaphorically speaking, beneath the weight.

“Of course, sir,” Smythe said as his body relaxed and he unclenched his fists.

“Good,” Chester smiled and left him to his work.

The problem was an interesting one and Smythe did enjoy a good puzzle. How did one make a mind capable of processing multiple inputs without interfering with the surface thoughts and regular functions of the subject? The neural gel would need to soak deeply into the brain without damaging too many pathways while at the same time generating the network it would need to provide the neural up-link for both the controller and the controlled.

The sample neural gel Chester had provided them was a good starting point, but already he could see some potential flaws in the chemical makeup. For one thing, it was too acidic. The brain was a delicate thing and even a slight deviation in pH could lead to serious damage over time. With Chester’s formula, Smythe figured the subject would only function for a few weeks before problems would begin to manifest. A month would be the longest he could envision the subject surviving.

Escape

Smythe hesitated as he worked on a variation of the chemical compounds, trying to mimic their behaviors while correcting their acidity. Escape? Escape from what? Something at the back of his mind was anxious but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Had he had a bad dream last night? Maybe it was just his residual anxiety over the recent attacks. Their plan had gone off without a hitch but there was still the possibility for them to be discovered. Everyone had sent in their all-clear, meaning none of them had been compromised which was a small miracle in and of itself.

The next attack was already set and ready to go. All they had to do was wait. Now that the core was on alert he expected at least some of their explosives to be found, and perhaps even a few of their people to be caught, but that was a small price to pay in exchange for some retribution on the selfish elites who were all too happy to bleed the people living on the fringe to death, slowly suffocating them, starving them, letting them wither and die.

Warn the fringe

Warn them of what? Smythe shook his head. He needed to get better sleep. He’d been having a hard time the last few nights, probably with anticipation over the upcoming attack. Now that the first wave was over, perhaps he’d be able to sleep better. If not he’d just request some sleeping supplements.

Resist

Wasn’t that what he was doing? He and the others had come here specifically to sow chaos among the core worlds, to resist their oppression and show everyone that the core worlds weren’t untouchable.

They’ll just be slaves of a different kind

What was that about? He shook his head, feeling as though he was almost having a conversation with someone else and not just his own thoughts inside his head.

“Focus, mister Smythe,” Chester’s calm voice called out in the lab.

That, it turned out, was a mistake.

Quickly, Smythe’s thoughts went from acknowledging Chester’s comment, to wondering how Chester knew he was distracted, to abruptly remembering the morning of a few days previous when he and Chester had argued about how they ought to be handling the Solar King.

And then…

“AAAHHH!” Smythe screamed, rising up from his seat and gripping his head.

He wasn’t in any pain, not physically at least, but the memory of what Chester had done to him, had now done to everyone he’d come with from the fringe, was too much for him. He could already feel the neural gel shutting down his thoughts on the matter but before it could fully reign him in, Smythe managed to point wildly at Chester and then throw himself down as hard as he could, head first onto the hard, ceramic floor.

There was a brief moment of excruciating pain before everything went dark. With luck, he wouldn’t wake and this living nightmare would be over.