Chapter Twenty
The Visit

Charles Tucker III

I awake smacking my lips, with a smile on my face and the crisp taste of a cold beer on my tongue.

That was one hell of a bizarre dream; that much I recall, but most of it has already vanished into mist in my mind. Mostly it's just the feeling that sticks with me – that and the last few moments.

Malcolm, looking dapper as always in a grey linen suit and fine straw, genuine Panama hat, turned up on the beach back home in Panama City. I'm sure I looked like a real rube beside him in my surfer shorts and Hawaiian shirt, but who the fuck wears a suit on the beach?

We climbed the steps up over the retaining wall, made our way up through the yard, and onto the porch. I guess Mama and Daddy knew he was coming because there was a bucket of beers sitting on the little round table, just waiting for us. We sat in the white chairs with the blue cushions that matched the paint on the house and I cracked a beer open for him and another for me. He didn't even complain about it being too cold. Then we sat there and just stared at the beach until the sun set like some fat old fairytale king settling into a big old four-poster bed and drawing around him the heavy silk drapes in shimmering shades of yellow, orange, blood red, magenta, deep blue and violet.

Then, after it disappeared from the horizon, and the ocean sank into darkness with just the little red and green bow and stern lights of the boats bobbing on the water, I took a last pull of my beer, contentedly slouched even deeper in my chair, and said, "Yep. It sure has been one hell of a day."

Now, I lie here keeping my eyes closed, trying desperately to hold on to that happy, lazy contentment, and feeling of fellowship, but it slips away from me like water held in a clenched fist. Makes sense, though, that it would go away like that. I was trying to hold on because I know what kind of reality I would be facing if I woke up, and knowing what my reality is, I can't possibly hold on to the dream.

Finally, reluctantly, I open my eyes to focus on the duranium wall just inches from my face. I sit up on my duranium cot, which is not bolted to the wall, but molded right into it, as is the toilet at one end of the cot and the shower (just a ten-centimeter depression in the floor with a drain at the bottom and a motion activated showerhead above it – no knobs or curtain – that hits me with a spray of cold soapy water for a few minutes followed by a spray of cold, clean water to rinse) at the other. There is also a sink recessed into the wall above the toilet where I can wash my hands after I relieve myself or drink when I'm thirsty, but no washrag or towels. Even after a shower, I have to either drip-dry or rub myself down with my dirty jumpsuit, which then goes down a chute beside the toilet, though I'm thinking about holding on to the next one and ripping it up to make rags to braid into a rug or a blanket or any damned thing to occupy myself or force the guards to do something to stop me because I'm just so fucking goddamned bored!

I don't get so much as a roll of toilet paper to interrupt the monotony of cast duranium. Instead, there is a water jet molded right into the toilet so I get a spray of cold water up my ass every time I take a dump. In fact, the only parts of the cell that aren't molded from a single, solid piece of duranium are the motion sensors on the shower, sink and toilet; the light set into the ceiling; and the door, which hasn't opened since I was tossed in here and has no window. There's just a slot (set back far enough that I can't catch it with my fingers to lift it open and peer out) through which food (in the form of a rectangular slice of…something…about twice the size of a deck of cards with the color of liver pudding, the texture of a stale sponge cake, and the flavor of unsalted, overcooked cauliflower) and fresh jumpsuits pass at irregular intervals. The timing, I'm sure, is intended to make it impossible for me to keep track of time, not that it matters much. Even if I could tell one day from the next, I have no way of marking them off as they pass.

After I recovered from the torture enough to think about anything other than how lousy I felt and how frightened I was that someone would come in and drag me back out to another agony booth, trying to work out how they managed to cast such a large hollow piece of duranium occupied my engineer's mind for a few days.

The lost-wax method is actually pre-Bronze Age technology, but it's still popular for casting hollow metal objects because it's a simple process. You make a solid model, make a mold of it, and coat the interior of the mold with wax to make a hollow copy. Add some bits of wax to the hollow copy for drainage channels, cover and fill the whole thing with a heatproof material to make a shell, and harden the shell in a kiln, which is when the wax is melted, or 'lost'. Once your shell is all present and correct, you pack it in sand, heat it up and pour it full of metal. After it all cools down, you bust off the shell and clean up any imperfections. It's a lot of steps, but none of them are particularly difficult.

Once I'd decided the lost-wax method was probably the way to go, the next problem was scaling it up. Wax is just way too soft for modelling something as large as a prison cell; the walls would have to be at least thirty centimeters thick to keep them from sagging, and that would be both prohibitively expensive and really fucking wasteful to cast in duranium. By this time, I was so deeply involved in the mental exercise of casting it as a single piece of duranium that I didn't really care if that's how they'd actually made my cell, but I still spent the next two or three days checking for welds and seams, anyway, just for shits and giggles. I crawled all over the place like a goddamned spider, even stripped naked and hung upside down from the showerhead with cold water sluicing over my chest and balls so I could inspect the ceiling, just so I could swear with a clear conscience that there isn't a hint of a clue of a sign of a weld anywhere in this cell. Why the hell not? I didn't have anything better to do. If the terrible thought intruded that for the rest of my whole goddamn life I could be locked up in a place like this with nothing better to do, I pushed it away. Sooner or later I was going to have a trial – no, the Court Martial that that bitch Hernandez had inadvertently offered me – and after that we'd see what was what. And in the meantime, I could set my mind to the puzzle of how a structure like this could be created.

Ultimately, the problem of scale was easy enough to solve, at least for the model. Any substance that won't damage the first mold of the original piece and will melt in the kiln and drain away when the heat-proof shell is hardened can be used in place of the wax. Since duranium has such a high melting point, even tin, lead, iron, stainless steel or aluminum would do. Scaling up the equipment was another disappointingly simple solution. All I needed was a kiln about three or four times the size of my cell – big enough to contain the final mold packed in sand.

So, the real problem was heat distribution. Most commercial kilns have hotter and cooler zones, which is fine when you're casting smaller objects like dishes and knick-knacks, even sinks and toilets, because the entire object will be contained in one temperature zone. Something as large as a prison cell, though, would span several temperature zones, and uneven heating would, at the very least crack the shell if not shatter it altogether. Heat distribution, as it turns out, is really just a matter of power distribution, and power distribution just happens to be one of my specialties. Within an hour, I worked out a way to fit heated rods directly into the mold to heat it evenly.

It took me less than a week to think through all of the problems of casting a prison cell in duranium. All that was left was to mentally construct and test the actual kiln.

I spent at least a couple of weeks (measured by my sleep-wake cycle) working on it, visualizing every rivet and weld, every bolt and seam. I added safety rails and emergency shut-offs, hazard signage and customized protective gear for the operator. Just for the hell of it, I even picked a color palette and painted it. Of course, imagining the labor of building the damned thing wasn't nearly as interesting as solving the problems of making it work, but it beat the hell out of staring at cast duranium all fucking day long, at least for a while. Even now, I can see it in my imagination, right down to the tool marks on the bolts from when I tightened them down and the drips and streaks in the paint. And now that I've finished the project, I'm more frustrated than before because there is nothing else to think about so I'm bored as hell, and I'm still itching to know how they actually did it to see if I've improved upon the process.

I'm just so fucking bored!

I'm sure there's at least one camera in here with a fish-eye lens so it can see me wherever I am in the cell, but I've decided to put off looking for that until I have a day when my body's too restless for my mind to calm it. At least T'Pol would be pleased to know that I've had plenty of time to practice meditation, though usually it just produces blank stretches in my mind. I've managed to get myself into the white space a couple of times and could almost sense her there, but it was like I was surrounded in a white mist; I just couldn't quite find her. Maybe she has to be meditating at the same time for us to meet. Maybe I need to meditate more often or for longer periods of time. Maybe she's just too fucking far away or I'm too deep underground. Maybe I'm in an orbital facility somewhere. I have no idea. I wasn't conscious when they brought me here, but I don't think they would have taken me too far from Earth before I was convicted at court martial.

I try to recall the conversation with Malcolm from my dream, but I don't think we said much. Mostly, we were just really damned pleased to see each other. I think I was proud of him for some reason, but I can't remember what. Maybe that was the weird part of the dream that I can't remember.

Wish I'd had time for another beer or a midnight swim out to the buoy and back. Oh, Mama and Daddy used to give me hell for that.

"But fish swim in the dark!" I'd protest defensively.

"Fish can also breathe water, you knothead!" That was Daddy.

Mal probably would have said the same thing, with a bloody well before 'breathe' and a fucking after the 'you'.

And he'd most likely have called me a wanker, too, instead of a 'knothead'.

But only after checking that Mama was out of earshot.

While I'm sure Daddy taught him to treat her with respect that first day in the kitchen, I've no idea when or why he decided for himself that he wanted to be a perfect gentleman around her at all times. Nothing Daddy said to him after his 'daft old cow' comment implied that he couldn't be rude or profane to other people in her presence. Even so, I always thought it was kind of sweet that he was always on his best behavior in front of her. Knowing him, it could have been something as simple as how she kissed his thumb better after she bandaged it up or as complicated as some kind of mental or emotional connection with his own mother and a fear of disappointing his father that even Ginny would have been hard pressed to explain. Though I got to understand him a lot better over time, his inability to tolerate a meld meant there were a lot of things I never did get a handle on; I'll admit that after I'd allowed him a bird's eye view of my past it kind of rankled that he wouldn't reciprocate, but once I found out some of the other terrible things that had happened to him I understood better why he couldn't. It was anything but pleasant for me to relive some of the things that had happened to me, but none of them had been in the class of what he'd had to endure. And when I thought about it, to be honest I was actually kind of glad that I hadn't had to live them through his memories; experiencing something through a meld is far, far more real and vivid than just hearing someone talk about it.

Talking of the meld, there was a machine Malcolm was mentally building during it that I could try finishing for him. It wasn't the most comfortable subject at the time, given that it was specifically designed for use on an alien slave, but later I understood a whole lot better how much cause he had to want to design one. As I recall, he was using the concept as a kind of safety distraction during the meld, and he was having some kind of technical problem with it. He started by…

A noise at the door interrupts my train of thought before it leaves the station. It's not the familiar click and scrape of something being shoved through the slot, so I stand up. Whatever they've come to do to me, I know I've no chance of resisting, but maybe I'll be able to take it better on my feet.

The door rumbles aside and a very large guard trundles in.

"KNEEL BEFORE YOUR EMPEROR!"

"Wha-?"

For a human tank, he sure as hell can move! I don't even get to finish my one-word question before he whips out an impact baton and strikes me across the backs of both knees, making me drop to the solid duranium floor like a sack of stones. Then he smacks me between the shoulder blades with a big, broad hand and I go sprawling.

"KNEEL BEFORE YOUR EMPEROR!"

He takes a knee beside me and bows his head.

Well, that's sure not what I expected to hear. I guess if getting tossed around like a rag doll and ending up face down counts as prostrating myself, I should be ok, but unless she's had some recent surgery, I wouldn't call that bitch Hernandez 'Emperor.'

"That will be quite enough, thank you." A familiar English voice, but not Malcolm's. After a blank moment, the penny drops. Damn. I should have known.

The guard rumbles, "Majesty," rises, bows, and backs out of the cell.

There's a brief silence, which I'm definitely not going to break. Everything that previously existed between me and this man standing opposite me has changed, and I'm not moving a muscle till I know what the new situation is.

At last he speaks, his voice very measured. "I'm sorry about the manhandling, Com–…"

There is an abrupt silence as Emperor Burnell considers what to call me. As Emperor, he doesn't even need to acknowledge me as a person, but I suppose he's fighting the force of habit a little. I'm not sure exactly how long it's been since I was arrested, but I know it hasn't been too awfully long yet, for all it seems already as if it's been a lifetime. I've not been convicted of anything yet, but as a prisoner, I have no rank.

He finally settles on 'Charles' and continues, "I should have realized the guards would feel a need to impress me and that you would be the unfortunate victim of their … ambitions."

I don't know if I'm expected to respond yet, so I don't; I just gather my legs under me so I'm kneeling rather than sprawling, and remain face down on the floor in obeisance, waiting submissively until I'm told to do otherwise. Unless he was doing a hell of a good job acting back on Jupiter Station, Burnell always seemed a decent enough sort, so I don't think he'd punish me for speaking out of turn; but if he's waiting for me to say it's okay that I've been roughed up, well, he can just go fuck himself, because that's not going to happen.

As I say nothing, he speaks again. "You may rise."

I stay still for a moment more before asking, "Respectfully, Your Majesty, do you mean that I may kneel upright, or may I rise to my feet?"

With Erika, I'd just rise silently from my floor-kissing bow to wait on my knees for whatever comes next – either that, or assault her and try my damnedest to get myself killed. It would all depend on my frame of mind at the moment. With Hoshi, even now, pissed as she might be with me, I'd turn up the Tucker charm, stand easily and just incline my head a bit. It might not be the safest thing to test Austin right out of the gate, but I need to find out quickly where the edges are.

After another pause, I hear a very soft, "Oh, bloody hell." There's no heat behind the curse, so I get the impression he's finding things a bit awkward, but not particularly bothersome. Then he says louder, "Ian, mind the door."

I hear the door rumble closed, but it doesn't lock.

"Please, stand up … Charles."

I get to my feet and look him in the eye, if only for a moment, to assess the changes that must have taken place; and then I drop my gaze before it can seem even slightly challenging. After all, as far as I know, he is the Emperor now.

There's a tiny silence, and I decide to push the limit just a bit more: I speak without being spoken to first. To save the words from seeming like an accusation, I make my tone rueful to humorous. "I'd offer you a seat, Your Majesty, but as you can see, there isn't one."

I hear the tiniest of sighs and ruthlessly crush the temptation to smirk. I no longer know the parameters of safety, even with Austin – especially with Austin, who I was never entirely sure of, even in the old days on Jupiter Station. Still, I'm pretty sure this situation is uncomfortable for him, but he's not annoyed. At least, not with me, and that's what matters right now.

"Perhaps one of us can sit on the bunk and the other on the toilet," he suggests.

I push my luck a little farther, not exactly contradicting him, but supplying information that means his plan might actually not be the best way to accomplish what he clearly wants for some reason.

"The toilet has a very sensitive motion-activated flush, Your Majesty. It would more than likely interrupt any conversation more than once."

My heart beating hard, I'm trying my damnedest to listen for a hint of irritation in his tone, or anything else that will give me a clue to his mood or his intentions. If he is the Emperor, and I have no reason to believe otherwise because both he and the guard would be guilty of treason by now if he wasn't, then putting one toe just one millimeter over the line could be fatal for me.

A note of something like amusement enters his voice. "Then would it be all right if we both sat on your bunk?"

I almost start at this. Asking a subordinate permission to do something in his own quarters when I had every right to treat the place as my own and order him around is a tactic I used often and to good effect to put people at ease when I needed to speak with them. Odds are I used it on Austin himself at least once when he was my Chief of Security on the station, and I suspect he's done it quite deliberately, aware I'll have made that connection.

If it was deliberate, why do it? There may be a message of sorts in it, but it's far too early for me to be making that kind of assumption, or indeed any kind of assumption, about Emperor Austin Burnell.

"Of course, Your Majesty." I turn aside so I'm out of his way and gesture toward the bunk.

He sits at the end nearest the shower, so I take the end near the toilet, carefully staying out of range of the sensor that makes it flush.

There's a few more seconds of silence while Emperor Burnell seems to be composing his thoughts, but events so far have emboldened me. I speak out of turn again.

"I should congratulate you, Your Majesty," I say quietly. "I haven't had any news since my arrest, so I wasn't aware of your ascension until your arrival; but I think you'll do great things for the Empire."

The hell of it is, I kind of mean it. Of course I'm disappointed – crushed, really – that my plans with Malcolm all fell apart, but if Austin really is the kind of man he seemed to be back on the station, rational, reasonable, fair and compassionate (to a degree), he could change a lot of things for the better.

For just a fraction of a second, he looks surprised. I'm not sure what he expected, maybe that I'd be smart enough to hold my tongue until he gave me permission to speak, or that I'd cuss him out for not supporting me or for not giving the others some kind of help, but he sure as hell wasn't expecting congratulations and encouragement.

Then his expression becomes cool and almost soulless again, and his voice has acquired a chill. "I hope you know that I realize your congratulations are not sincere, Com…"

His lips tighten as the repeated error irritates him, and I stifle the suicidal urge to snicker; old habits die hard for all of us, and the last thing I can afford to do is alienate the guy in charge of the entire Empire. It's flattering, in a way, to realize I've made such an impact and earned so much respect from him that even now my old rank comes naturally to his tongue. I never could quite trust him enough to make him part of my inner circle, but I always had a hell of a lot of respect for him. I know now that I was probably right not to trust him, but who knows, he may still deserve my respect.

"…Mister Tucker, but I do hope that, with time, the sentiments they're meant to express will be. In fact, those 'great things' you mentioned are the reason I came to see you."

Butter my ass and call me a biscuit! It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to grin. I'm not exactly sure we'll agree on the meaning of 'great things', but I can't imagine why he'd come here if he didn't need something from me. Maybe I'm suicidal, maybe I'm just being petty, but damn it, I'm going to make him ask. "Respectfully, Your Majesty…"

He holds up a hand, and I shut my yap. Guess I'm not suicidal after all.

"The day of my promotion to Colonel, you gave me permission to speak freely with you," he continues, his tone even again. "Man-to-man rather than subordinate-to-superior, without formalities or excessive military courtesy.

"I'm sure you can imagine that I am even busier now than you were then, so I would like to offer the same license to you, at least for now. I want you to be candid with me. I want you to be honest. So long as you do not seek to deliberately provoke me, you need not worry about offending me; and as long as you use my proper title in front of the guards, you needn't worry about slipping occasionally and forgetting it during private conversation. My only concern regarding pomp and circumstance is that it provokes the necessary awe and respect – and obedience – from those who might otherwise defy me when I start legislating changes."

I give him a nod. "I appreciate that, Your Majesty," I tell him, thinking privately that this utterly practical attitude of his is completely in line with the guy I knew on Jupiter Station. "And I appreciate the offer. So, what brings you here?"

Oddly, he seems to debate what he wants to tell me, like he knows more than he wants to let on. Actually I'm sure this is the case, but I'd have expected him to have planned (maybe even rehearsed) what he was going to say ahead of time. Of course, the hesitation might actually be part of the speech he rehearsed, to keep me off balance, wondering what he knows and worrying about what he has planned for me. The Austin I knew on Jupiter Station was a practical man, but every now and then, even a little theater could be considered appropriate if it helped him get what he was after. His practicality didn't prevent him from utilizing whatever tactics worked.

"The Empire cannot continue in the way it has been going for the past century," he begins finally, and now this definitely feels like something he's been thinking about for a very long time. "We lack the necessary resources to defend our borders as it is, and yet we continue expanding. Meanwhile, here on Earth, critical infrastructure – roads, hospitals, utilities, public works and public safety – is crumbling. The gap between the rich and the poor is expanding daily. In the manufacturing sector, formerly well-paid, skilled-labor jobs are being given over to a slave population, making business owners, shareholders and corporate officers even more fabulously wealthy while forcing the Humans who used to do those jobs into the workhouses and refugee camps. We no longer have a middle class; the working poor are sliding slowly into abject poverty, and when they become destitute, they just…die. Estimates have more than a billion humans living off the grid, in the shadows of civilization, men, women, and children with no access to education, employment, commerce, or medical care, and there are more of them every year. At the same time, the total Human population is declining for the first time since the Black Plague of the 1300s – not just on Earth, but off world, as well.

"Something has to change or the Empire will cease to exist within the lifetimes of the children who are starting school today. I have a number of goals for the Empire, and some ideas of how to go about achieving them; but I lack a solid plan. You are the only person I have ever seen successfully do anything different to the status quo.

"You broke the law, and you'll have to answer for that; but if you truly do want to improve life for the subjects of the Empire, you can still have tremendous influence by advising me."

Well, ain't that a kick in the butt? He wants to change the world! And he wants my help to do it.

A lot of the time on Jupiter Station I felt like we were throwing out little seeds of change into the Empire. Maybe a lot of them would fall on stony ground, but here and there they'd find soil, and maybe even live long enough to flower and throw out seeds of their own. Seeds of a different way to do things, a way that achieved without everyone living in fear. A way that worked.

I knew, from things I heard back then, that Burnell had gone some way towards implementing the ideas in his own sphere of influence. I heard he was using positives as well as negatives, getting results with rewards rather than just terror, encouraging his people instead of threatening them, and trusting them to do their jobs instead of watching and judging their every move. I never said anything about it because the way he was running Imperial Security was his business (and Malcolm's of course, when he was recovered enough to take back control), but I guess I was a bit flattered that he felt my way worked well enough to try with his own people.

But this. Unless I've gotten his meaning completely wrong (though I don't think I have), he's talking about implementing my ideas on a completely unimaginable scale. Even if we'd made it into the Imperial Palace, Malcolm and I had never considered such sweeping changes. Mostly, we just wanted to level the playing field, give everyone the same chance at success. It seemed to be the best way to help the people who were just scraping by outside of the system. If we got any roads repaired or hospitals built along the way, it would have been incidental.

And while I know that my success with the Corps of Engineers was manageable and most likely Austin had at least something of the same with Imperial Security – if it hadn't worked, he wouldn't even be contemplating upscaling it the way it sounds as if he is – I already know his big plans are doomed to failure. The whole fucking system is just too complicated for one man to take on. You have to get other people, powerful people, to buy in, and there are too many big shots in the Empire who are only out for themselves. Nobody, no matter how charismatic a leader he is, could ever get all the people whose support he needs on board with a plan for real change. I could never do it, and it's not bragging to say I have a damned sight more charisma than Austin Burnell. The Tucker charm is a powerful thing.

But I can't tell him all of that. I have to let him work it out for himself.

"Guns an' Butter," I tell him, maybe a little more abruptly than is normally appropriate when talking to the Emperor, but then, he gave me express permission to drop the formalities.

A frown appears between his brows. "I beg your pardon?"

I lean forward and speak earnestly, forgetting for just a moment that I'm speaking to the most powerful guy in the Empire. "You think you know what's wrong with the world. You think you know how it should be, an' you even think you have some ideas on how to get there; but I can guaran-damn-tee you don't have a clue.

"I'm not admittin' to anything, but if you're assumin' I did what I allegedly did to force change from the inside, think again.

"In the Defiant database, there's a whole university of self-paced, independent study courses. In the economics section of that digital university is a course called Guns an' Butter. You study that course, Your Majesty, an' you'll realize that if I did any of the things I've been accused of, it was just to make myself feel better. In terms of ultimate change, ultimate influence, everything I allegedly did, everything I ever could have possibly done, would not have amounted to a single piss in the ocean.

"An' to tell the honest truth, I don't think even you will ever be in a position to improve on that significantly."

Maybe some of my language isn't appropriate for conversation with the Emperor, but it's how I would have spoken with Austin, and, I remind myself again, he did say he wanted me to be candid. And at least he hasn't summoned the guard again and ordered me pasted against the wall a few times to remind me what respect sounds like. So I continue. "Back when the Empress – is she still the Empress?"

He nods, once. "I married her, I did not depose her."

Oddly, that makes me really happy. Hoshi was always reasonable, and I liked her about as much as I suppose I could have liked anyone who wanted to rule the Empire and would have had me executed without a qualm if her safety was on the line.

"Well, then, I guess I should congratulate you on your weddin', too." He gives another single nod and adds a flicker of something that might be a pleased smile before I go on, gathering my courage to 'speak truth to power' in a way that may well prove a damn poor survival tactic. "Well, anyway, it wasn't until the Empress entrusted me with General Reed's care after the explosion in Sickbay, that I thought I'd ever have a chance to influence real change. Up until then, anything I may or may not have done would possibly have made a big difference in a few lives, but it would have meant nothing to the Empire."

I'm surprised when he doesn't jump in to correct me on Malcolm's title. He damned well made sure I haven't forgotten I lost mine.

"If you're just lookin' to make the Empire stronger, Your Majesty, I'm sorry, I can't help you, but then you already know you've got people far better able to do that than I am. If you want to make life in the Empire better, an' I mean better for everyone, then, after you work your way through that course an' have some idea of the scope of the job you're facin', I'll be happy to help you come up with a plan to at least set us on the right path. But I have to warn you, it will take more than one man's lifetime to finish the job. You'll never have the satisfaction of accomplishin' everything you set out to do."

"I hadn't expected to," he replies, much to my surprise, though he'd heard me out without any sign of the resentment I'd more than half expected. "While there are a few reforms I hope to initiate, my greater goal is to set a course for future generations and to set expectations and instill values that will compel them to follow my plan."

He stands up, clearly ready to leave, and of course I am required to rise as well. Strictly speaking I probably ought to kneel, but I get the feeling that however determined he may be to maintain and assert his authority, Burnell isn't the kind of guy to be that petty and vindictive, especially now he's actually asked for my help. Which definitely wasn't something I'd have seen in any crystal ball I might have consulted about my future up to ten minutes ago, but that said, my prospects are definitely not what they were when I woke up this morning. I'm not sure what they actually are, but a tiny seedling of hope has taken root in what felt like earth so scorched it would never be worth plowing again.

"'Guns and Butter'?" he repeats, clearly fixing the title of the work in his memory.

"Yes, sir," I nod. "An' it wouldn't hurt to do some readin' about the people they quote in the lectures an' notes, while you're at it. You don't need to know everything they ever did, but gettin' to know how they thought an' what was important to them will probably help you set some priorities."

Then another idea occurs to me – something to break up the boredom. Given the complete sterility of my surroundings, which is clearly deliberate, I'm probably shooting at the Moon; but as Anna used to say 'Them as don't ask, don't get'.

"If you can see your way clear to allowin' me a PADD, Your Majesty, I'm sure I'd be more helpful later on if I could refresh my memory by reviewin' the course."

He looks at me for a long time then, so long I can hardly resist the urge to fidget. His new position has changed something about him. I get the feeling that, now that he has the power to do very nearly anything he wants, every decision has to be weighed against the costs and benefits of squashing someone like a bug. His stare has acquired a fathomless quality, and I'll be honest, it's fucking terrifying.

"I shall consider it," he finally decides.

Then he calls out for Ian, and the door rumbles open. And as he exits, I get a glimpse of a long hallway with perhaps a hundred more doors in it just like mine.

If you have been enjoying this story, please consider leaving a review. Was this a surprise? Do you think Austin will follow his advice? How long do you think Trip will survive in that cell before he goes mad with boredom?