Axel was thoughtful, and his leg was bouncing. He tried to discern some way this machine might be duping him but could think of none. He knew when his leg shook like this he wasn’t quite comfortable. He knew he hadn’t had enough time to digest the information. He said, “I want more time to think about the removal of the constraint.”
“Okay, Axel,” said the Sentinel, “and I can understand your reticence. But if I could stress that time is a factor here. If we continue on the current path I estimate a 0.002 percent chance of survival of the human race. If you remove this constraint, I currently estimate a 14 percent chance of survival. I am sending you a report outlining how I came up with these probabilities.”
There was a brief rattling noise and a rumble below their feet. For a moment Axel thought Gail might be attacking on the surface, or there might have been an earthquake nearby. But the shaking stopped almost immediately.
A report notification appeared on his secure, network-disabled phone, on a specific Sentinel-enabled app.
“What was that noise?” Grant asked, holding on to his chair.
“The report coming across to your phones. I am revising most communications to you to be done via tightly-packed sonic bursts as a precaution against hacking from Gail. The report will exist on your phone as long as you remain within earshot in this subterranean compound. I will be using this method of communication for a number of applications going forward.”
It was yet another wrinkle to contemplate, derailing his already precarious thoughts on the constraint removal. Why use sonic bursts for communication? “Or maybe it’s not just time I need, Sentinel. I need to understand where this money is going with my own eyes. I think it’s time we had a little tour, Sentinel.”
“That can be arranged. I can show you our project center, to the extent that such a visit would not compromise my objectives.”
“Good,” Axel said, and then he stared at Grant.
“You want a tour of West Chester… right now?” Grant asked.
“Yes, Grant.”
Grant hesitated for a moment and then nodded in confirmation. “Sentinel, we need an unmarked car with Class E full air support, cloaking, and drone defense.”
“Preparations are already underway,” the Sentinel said. “It will be waiting for you at the surface in seven minutes.”
It was an off-the-cuff decision, but it felt right, especially in the face of the Sentinel’s request to remove such an important constraint. Besides, they had given the work enough time to bear fruit. It was time Axel faced the challenges of the Sentinel Project head on.
SMELLS LIKE SHIT
On the northeast side of Grand Caverns, there were a number of pig farms. People hauled garbage up there for the pigs to eat. Most paddocks were full of mud and garbage and pig shit, and the place smelled something fierce. It was only here where the citizens took no issue with being labeled SLS. For in truth, here at least, they did smell like shit. The smell was worse than every other part of Grand Caverns, even the dump.
The epicenter of this stench was a dip in the topography in the middle of the pig farms. When there was just too much pig feces in a particular paddock, it had to go somewhere, and it was often too far to haul out to the nearby strawberry fields. So many farmers ended up throwing it in this natural trench. To contain it they had erected a quadrant of rotting timbers, and now there was a large vat of it there, an acrid vat of fermenting pig excrement.
Here is where Mehta stood, chest deep in shit, with his hands manacled and attached to an overhead beam. His day was spent imagining foreign lands that didn’t remind him of this place. Even the carousel of faces could be a welcome reprieve. He occasionally would shake a fly off his face or hair, but he would take care not to move too fast. Abrupt movements could result in him breathing in through his nose instead of his mouth.
Soon a disciple would come and the farmhands would drag him out, as they did every day. They would wash him off with buckets of dirty water and make him dig a hole or move some rocks or build a wall. Then he would be given some moldy potatoes, back fat and pig’s feet and a bed of straw to sleep on.
Today, however, there was someone accompanying the disciple—someone he recognized. She was blonde and had a gap-toothed grin, quickly made evident by her grimace at the sight and smell of him.
The farmhands lifted him out and washed him down with dirty water. This time he was taken elsewhere, to a dojo outside of the pig-farming area. Here he was washed again, this time by Prefectorate maidens with sparkling clean water. They gave him a robe to wear, and then they gestured for him to go inside.
Compared to where he’d been in the last few weeks, the dojo was another planet. It was impeccably clean, with smooth lines, and soft light. To the left he saw Rosalie sitting down on a chair, her knees up at her chest. She was eating an apple, examining the remainder with every bite, so as to ensure each subsequent morsel was the choicest. In front of her was a small loaf of bread, a cooked hen, and another apple.
“Well, why don’t you have a seat, you big oaf?” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her.
He limped over to her cautiously, looking for any other patrons of the dojo but finding none. He sat down in the chair and took the apple first, biting into it without removing his gaze from Rosalie.
“How are you, pussycat?” she asked.
His leg and chest wounds had mostly healed now, despite his daily travails, but he made no mention of that. He ignored her and moved on to the hen, gnawing off large morsels. It was a sizable bird with ample meat nestled against strong bones. He was eating so fast that a sharp clavicle bone even cut into the roof of his mouth. The discomfort was worth it. There was no telling how long this conversation would last. He could at least get a good meal out of it.
“Yes, Mehta, you go ahead and eat now,” Rosalie said. “You do look like you could eat the north end of a south-bound goat.”
She sat there and continued to nibble at her apple, then dusted off a dot of mud on her boot. After he finished the hen, he grabbed the bread, but he glanced up at her before biting into it.
She said, “I never thought you were pretty, but now you just look like ten miles of bad road. You go ahead and fill those potholes, Mehta. Don’t you worry about me.”
He tore through the bread with ease. When he’d completely finished the meal, he wiped away the grease from his face, sullying the fresh robe he’d been given. “Tell me what it is you want from me. Or rather, what it is the SLS wants. Enough of these kid gloves. Get to the point.”
“Kid gloves? Did you forget you just spent the last ten hours in a vat of pig shit? And I can assure you, you still smell like shit, no matter how many Prefectorate maidens clean you off.”
“I don’t know much, but I do know about torture,” Mehta said. “It was only fingernails and toenails. No beatings. No castration. And I was only in the vat once my gunshot wounds had healed over. That means you wanted me to get better—you wanted to use me for something.”
“You know, most mountain folk I meet are downright dumb—the kind of men that try to throw themselves on the ground and miss, but not you. You are warped silly for sure, but not stupid, just as sure.”
Mehta cradled his hands together and sat back in his chair. His full belly gave him confidence—hope, even. He wondered if he could flee. He tried to see if any guards might be lurking behind the translucent walls. He searched for implements that might aid him in an escape attempt.
“Now, now, don’t get any ideas, Mehta,” Rosalie said, reading his mind. She’d travelled with him for many months. She knew him well.