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A/N: Thanks to readers Turrislucidus and Spacetea for their continued comments and support! We hope you continue to enjoy the unfolding of the story.

London

The headquarters of Chadworth Industries was the tallest building in the world. A ring of six smaller towers, each structure holding a particular subdivision, encircled the massive central office, a giant needle of glass which stretched toward the heavens like a modern Tower of Babel. Just below the decorative spire which served as the building's crown was the chief executive's office, a vaulted glass hall which ran the length of the narrow top floor. From this lofty position, all of London…and indeed much of southeastern England…stretched out in vast panorama on all sides, a commanding view that seemed more fit for an emperor than a business executive. Even the room itself had an air of authority: the elevator opened at the far end from the chief executive's desk, compelling any visitors to walk the full length of the lofty chamber. The man himself was seated behind an enormous desk, raised slightly on a sort of dais at the north end of the room, which required two steps up before one stood on a level with him. The air of royalty, however, was hardly inappropriate; as head of Nova Britannia's chief military contractor and the largest corporation in human history, the CEO of Chadworth Industries was among the most powerful men in the world. Currently, this man was Charles Lavernius Chadworth, brother of the ill-fated JR…the eldest Chadworth brother had seen the end of the hated Willy Wonka, only to die in a Resistance plot a decade later. His successor Charles was the stockiest of the three Chadworth brothers, solidly-built and now acquiring some weight as he aged. His jaw was heavy and square but well formed, his dark hair cut short…though he was clean shaven, there was always a faint blue hint of recessed stubble that would quickly grow out into a beard given the opportunity. When he spoke, his voice was at once gruff and commanding, coarsened by his fondness for tobacco…and, at present, his displeasure.

"So there's going to be an uprising at one of my facilities…and you want me to ignore it?" Charles said, addressing the flat holographic image that hung in the air above his desk.

"Brighton Mine, to be exact," replied the hovering face of Minister Mike Teavee, who often served as the government's private liaison in matters of national security. "Outside Brazzaville, former Republic of the…"

"I know where it is, Minister," Charles growled. "My brother Vincent runs it. What I want to know is why exactly we should let our labor force escape."

Teavee's neutral expression did not change. "It is a matter of the highest importance."

"You're going to have to do better than that," said a third voice, this from the flat representation of Vincent Chadworth which also hovered over the desk.

Teavee either did not notice Vincent's failure to use an honorific or, more likely, did not care. The Minister let out a gentle sigh, the time lost in explanations seemingly more important to him than the possible compromise of state secrets. "As the facility in question does belong to your family, I will permit you access to certain details of the government's plan. This information, however, must naturally remain in the strictest confidence."

"Here are the basics: Central Intelligence has a spy in place at Brighton," Vincent said, cutting off Teavee's words. "He arrived a little over a week ago, and the government wants him to go free without drawing suspicion. The question is why."

Teavee was as calm and neutral as ever. "This spy has been searching for a way into the Global Resistance Movement for the past six months. Any attempts to insert him as some extraordinary character…a terrorist, for example…will most certainly lead to the compromising of his identity in short order. He must be unremarkable…just another refugee or rescued prisoner or freed slave. We have received word that the Resistance is planning a mass breakout from Brighton in roughly forty-eight hours, and it must be successful so that our agent can slip into the rebel camp unnoticed, just one more face out of hundreds. His ultimate mission is to locate the fugitive General Bucket and the main Resistance fortress; once he has done this, we will break the rebellion's back with a single, precise stroke. But in order to make his cover perfect and to convince the rebels that they have indeed won their intended victory, the escape must be convincing."

"In other words, some of our men will have to serve as cannon fodder," Charles said.

"They will die for the best cause, I assure you," Teavee said, his face and voice displaying roughly the same level of empathy as a combat drone. Charles began to nod slowly, and Vincent's face darkened.

"Brother, sacrifices in combat are one thing. But this…"

"The guard will be reduced by a third," Charles said flatly. "Draw names randomly for who gets relieved and who gets to play as the losing team."

Vincent's expression was nothing short of terrifying. "I have one question, Minister. Assuming I'm willing to let some of my men die for this stunt…how many of the slaves have to reach the extraction point alive?"

"Enough to avoid suspicion," Teavee said calmly. "If our man staggers in as the only survivor, it will naturally raise questions…so will wiping out only a portion of the escapees when you could easily have killed them all. You must therefore limit your forces, again to make the escape believable. I would say that you could kill or recapture anywhere from half to two-thirds of the slaves with little consequence, however, so long as you make sure our man is not one of them. Naturally, the government will see to it that Brighton's slave population is replaced with nothing but the finest…and you will be compensated for both lost employees and working hours."

Vincent hardly looked placated, but he said nothing more. Charles was nodding again. "Thank you for your time, Minister. Your explanation has cleared things up quite well, if not palatably. I will see to it that everything is in order."

The Minister gave a curt nod, and his image faded. Vincent's dark expression remained. "I will not give the command myself…but I will follow orders. Say the word, and it is done."

"The word is given," Charles replied. "I'm sorry, Brother, but this is all for the best, I'm sure. When you asked about the escapees…"

"I was planning on setting the gunships on them once they got out past the perimeter."

Charles smiled slightly. "Be my guest, but remember what the Minister said: don't kill too many. Restrict yourself to two aircraft…give the little bastards half a chance. Bear in mind that what you don't clean up will be taken care of later anyway. And besides…look on the bright side…this way you'll get some new labor instead of that broken-down lot you're dealing with currently."

"Small comfort for my employees."

"Necessary sacrifices, Vincent," Charles replied calmly. "Necessary sacrifices."