Chapter Ten: Captured

Mickey stepped off the steamboat and sighed. Another day of work done. His mind was hardly focused on his job, as he knew that today would be the day that everything changed. If Minnie was successful, Goofenberg would finally be off their trail, and things might go back to normal. If this plan worked, they could use Minnie's power to run circles around the regime and stay one step ahead, even as their operation expanded. If this worked, the future could be full of hope again.

Mickey let today's melody flood his brain. He fixed his eyes on Minnie and her conversation partner from every slice. It seemed like it was going well. The woman she was talking with was probably sympathetic. At least, that's what he thought the inverted pyramid made of diamonds meant. He was still trying to figure that one out, but he was pretty sure it was a positive sentiment.

It was with this optimistic outlook that he wandered from the dock back to where his automobile was parked. Because the roads needed to be clear for all of the shipping vehicles, the closest place to legally park was half a dozen blocks away, so Mickey always had a bit of a walk at the beginning and end of the day. He looked around to make sure he was still going the right direction, and then returned to observing Minnie's progress.

As he shifted across the fourth dimension, something caught his eye. He wasn't as good as Minnie was at noticing general trends in the boundless ocean of information, but this one was hard to miss. In a few of the slices, it was like a series of bombs had been set off. What looked like debris was flying in every direction and bouncing around like leaves tossed by the winds of a storm. There was some kind of pink fire burning, which didn't seem like a good sign either. Something was very wrong.

Mickey surveyed his surroundings on the nominal plane of 3D existence. There were a few automobiles, and some pedestrians, but otherwise, not much was moving or happening. Nothing seemed all that out of place or suspicious. Just to be safe, Mickey decided to check the distance slice and cross reference it with a slice where he knew what humans looked like. There were about forty people in the immediate vicinity. Mickey frowned. That seemed like too many for a part of the city like the docks.

He focused in on some of the people and tried to see if there were any patterns. Most of them weren't moving, and more concerning still, most of them were clustered into groups of four or five. Maybe families? I'm overreacting. This is just an unusually densely populated area. He checked a slice that correlated with age. There were no children, and no elderly. All men. That's not good.

Suddenly, a thought struck Mickey. If the regime was on to him, there would be at least one person he knew would be involved. He checked Goofenberg's distance and direction. It seemed like he was at home. Next he checked the secret police agent who had interviewed him and Minnie. Donald Canardino was standing two blocks away, surrounded by four other men. Panicking, Mickey checked the relative directions of every other person. He was surrounded on all sides. Wherever he ran, they would catch him. He saw a few of them inch closer, cutting off his routes of escape even further. They were waiting for him to turn the next corner towards his automobile. He checked Minnie's vicinity, and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Hopefully it was just him that was done for.

Mickey sighed. He had known this was a possibility, but the reality of it was different than he had thought. His heart was pounding, but his brain was calm. It was too late for him, but if Minnie got away, it wouldn't matter. There were still options. He just had to pick the best one now. Mickey started to cross the empty street and then sat down cross legged in the middle of the street. He remembered something that Goofenberg had done, and imitated it. Long, short, short. D. Long, long, long. O. Long, short. N. He blinked the message over and over on every slice he could manage to, in every way he could think to. Don't come home.

Mickey continued like this for what felt like a half an hour. He just sat there in the road, blinking his SOS and praying that his wife was paying attention. What are they doing, thought Mickey. The men who had surrounded him still lay crouched in wait, expecting him to come around the corner and refusing to move from their position. No automobiles came down the road anymore, and Mickey began to wonder if the police had set up some kind of barricade. Finally, they made their move.

Twenty or thirty men emerged from every street, most of them with pistols drawn, a few with submachine guns. They ran towards him until they were within about ten meters, and then they slowed their approach and began shouting at him, dozens of commands all at once. Mickey complied with the few that he could hear, and laid his body flat on the ground, facedown. He put his hands on the back of his head. He felt two men grab his hands and lock his wrists into handcuffs. Another two men locked his feet into cuffs. To his surprise, they also tied a rope tightly around his waist and clipped the end of it to the belt of a large police officer. As they dragged him to his feet and shoved him into the back of an automobile with the large officer, Mickey laughed to himself. They're not taking any chances, are they?

The automobile began to move, and the man in the passenger seat turned around and faced Mickey. Mickey was so caught up in the situation that it took him a few seconds to recognize who it was.

"I gotta admit," said Donald, "you were pretty low down on my list of suspects. Your wife is an insufferable gossip, and you're one of the most boring people I've ever met. It's almost disappointing it's you."

"What's me?"

Donald narrowed his eyes. He seemed to doubt Goofenberg's intel for a second, and then cast his doubts aside.

"Either way, I suppose it's an honor to finally meet the mastermind behind it all. You caused quite a commotion with those sheets of music."

Mickey tried to contain his surprise at this statement, before realizing that surprise was probably how an innocent person would have reacted anyway. They think I'm behind it all, he realized. They think Minnie is the accomplice, not the other way around. Mickey smiled. Hopefully they wouldn't prioritize catching her. As long as she didn't do anything to prove them wrong, they would go on thinking that Mickey was the real target. Mickey stayed silent for the rest of the automobile ride.

George and Sophie sat in silence for an uncomfortable length of time.

"George… what have you done?"

George grimaced. "I didn't have a choice," he said. "He pressed me. He knew I was holding back their identities, and he offered me a deal. Taking it was the only thing I could do."

"So that woman… you think she's-"

"Probably already in custody," said George grimly.

Sophie didn't say anything, and George turned red. He could feel her disgust and judgment, even without checking any of the ballrooms.

"It was her or us!" said George. "I acted to protect us!"

Sophie let out a visceral groan.

"I- I'm sorry," sputtered George.

"You know what she told me?" asked Sophie, her voice dangerously soft. "She said if it was between you or humanity, she would pick you."

George cringed and held his head in his hands.

"Tell me she's guilty," said Sophie suddenly. "Tell me she's done something really bad and she deserves to go away!"

"I can't," said George.

"Is it true that she gave you the ability to see?"

"No," said George, "She gave me something better. She gave me the ability to hear."

"But you're not deaf."

"I was before," said George. "And I guess I will be again tomorrow."

"She gave you a gift, and you repaid her with a knife in the back."

Sophie was spitting the words with a layer of anger and pain that George had rarely heard from her.

"I did it to protect us," repeated George. "To protect our future."

"You shouldn't have!" shouted Sophie. "I don't want any part of a future built on other people's destroyed lives."

After a long silence, during which George didn't know what to say that hadn't already been said, Sophie spoke again.

"I need some time alone. Don't visit, don't talk to me. I just need to figure out how to feel about all this. I need some time to make sense of it."

"Please," said George. "I need you now more than ever. Don't leave."

"I needed you too," said Sophie, "but you left me out of this."

She turned and exited the way she came. George collapsed into a heap on the floor and let the tears stream down his face. It was all collapsing now.

Minnie saw the message and gritted her teeth. Don't come home. Even as he was captured, he was thinking of her. I've messed this all up, she thought. I convinced him to go along with this stupid plan and now he's caught. It won't be long before they find me too. Minnie had walked to Sophie's apartment, and it was on the return walk that she saw Mickey's message. She had nowhere to go now. Her own apartment was already surrounded, as a quick check of various different slices revealed, and she had no allies now. She called to mind her father, and then quickly cast the thought from her head. She had no allies.

What am I going to do? Thought Minnie. It's all over now. I've lost. She clutched her head and tried to breath as a mounting headache threatened to bring her to her knees. A combination of primal fear and a feeling somewhere between shame and disgust gripped her. What would Mickey think of me falling apart like this the second he's gone? I'm better than that. Minnie tried to hold back tears as she thought about how firmly devoted Mickey had been through all of this. He had been a pillar of strength, even as things had begun to fall into chaos. Now that he was captured, it was up to her to be that pillar. To do otherwise was an insult to Mickey. He believed in her, so she had to as well.

Minnie wandered the streets until she found an automobile that was part of a taxicab service. She had never used one, but she needed to get out of the heart of the city fast. The secret police would probably be looking for her all around her apartment, so before anything else, she needed to get some distance between her and them. She paid the taxicab driver to take her all the way to the outskirts of the city, but once there, she realized she didn't have much money left. Her plan was to lay low at a bed and breakfast until she could figure out what to do, but without the money to cover even a single night, she was running low on options.

Nevertheless, as she stumbled upon a small place offering lodging, Minnie wondered if she might not need money after all. Maybe I could steal some gold bars, she thought with sardonic amusement. Actually it wasn't the worst idea. Stealing large amounts of money would attract attention and get her caught, but that didn't mean she had nothing to learn from the gold thief. Let people see what they want to see.

Minnie could see a middle aged woman cleaning tables on the ground floor of the bed and breakfast. She was the only one inside, and she seemed like she was in charge. Minnie considered her from a hundred different angles, cross referencing her own anguish at losing Mickey until she found something that plagued this woman just as much. A bitter memory. Minnie tried to get a sense of what kind of memory it was. She called forth feelings and words and categories, and started to narrow it down. A picture of the violence the woman had endured took form.

"Can I help you, miss?" asked the woman as Minnie entered.

"I don't know," said Minnie, letting herself burst into tears.

"Oh, dear," said the woman. "What's wrong?"

"It's- It's my husband. He-"

Minnie stopped talking in favor of sobs. She didn't need to act, since the weight of her life collapsing around her was real enough. Still, she knew what the woman expected to hear, and she knew what gaps she would fill in.

"I know, dear," said the woman, wrapping her in a shawl and bringing her further into the establishment. "You don't have to say it. I know. You can stay here for as long as you need to."

Minnie tried not to smile. She felt bad taking advantage of this woman's trauma, but in a sense, she was a victim of violence, just not by her husband. If the secret police caught her, she wouldn't exactly be their houseguest. Now I just need to think of what to do next.

Mickey recognized the large black structure that was the Central Intelligence building. Donald seemed to notice his quizzical expression as they entered, surrounded by armed men.

"What, you thought we would blindfold you? I considered it, but it seemed kind of pointless to be honest. It's not your eyes that I'm concerned with, it's your ears."

Ears? Mickey struggled to understand the comment until he remembered who he was dealing with. That's right, thought Mickey, you've been spending too much time around Goofenberg. Mickey made a mental note that Donald must not be using the music himself if he through that everyone used it the same way George did.

"If I could block your hearing too, I would, but my consultant says that's not how it works. Stopping up your ears wouldn't do anything so long as you've got the music."

They came to the first checkpoint inside the building. Donald showed his code and they passed through. Together, the group entered a stairwell, and to Mickey's surprise walked down three flights of stairs. We were already at ground level, thought Mickey. The jail is underground? After a long walk down a narrow corridor with steel walls, they came to a metal gate guarded by two armed men. Donald produced another director's code, and they continued deeper into the bunker. Finally, they came to Mickey's cell. Four men with submachine guns opened it, chained Mickey's feet to the wall, and then stood guard outside. Donald pulled up a chair and looked at Mickey through the bars.

"I've got a lot of questions," said Donald. "So let's get right to it."

Mickey stared at him blankly. There was no reason to give away any information.

"How do you make the music?"

Mickey didn't answer. He sat on the floor with his hands folded in his lap and kept his eyes trained on the dirty iron floor.

"What's your real motivation behind all this? What were you planning?"

Again Mickey stayed silent.

"You can't honestly have thought this would end in your favor. Really, how did you see this ending?"

No answer. Donald narrowed his eyes. He would have to change his approach.

"We captured your wife."

Donald noticed the tiniest hint of a reaction. A jolt of terror hidden beneath the cool exterior. A moment later, Mickey's shoulders seemed to lose their tension and he smiled.

"You just checked, didn't you?" said Donald with a grin. "To make sure I was lying."

Mickey tried hard not to show how uncomfortable he was with how easily the man could read him.

"It doesn't matter," said Donald, "we'll have her soon enough."

For a moment, Donald just stared at him, trying to guess what he was thinking. His voice took on a soft, tired quality as he spoke.

"I don't want it to be like this either. All this struggle? It's pointless. Truthfully, I'd be on your side if I didn't learn how pointless it all was a long time ago."

Mickey perked up. He had expected some kind of trick from an agent of the secret police, like pretending to be a secret Whiteglove agent, but this wasn't exactly that. He checked a few slices. The emotion seemed genuine enough.

"What surprises me is that a smart young man like yourself can't see it," continued Donald.

He produced a folder and pulled out an old paper. He cleared his throat and read from it.

"Wars are won not by guns or numbers, but by chains of communication and transportation. It is in the failure to recognize this that the Whiteglove revolution doomed itself to oblivion. Communication thrives on tradition, just as transportation thrives on roads or shipping channels. The more established a mode of communication is, the more efficiently information can be transferred. In this way, the regime will always have an inherent advantage over any revolutionary. In short, there is no weapon or tactic that the regime cannot co-opt, and in doing so its victory is assured."

Mickey sat still and let his words wash over him. Donald read them with a tone somewhere between amusement and sadness. Still Mickey said nothing.

"I take it you were lying when you wrote those words," said Donald. "You'd hardly be the first to lie to get into university."

"I wasn't lying," said Mickey quietly, "I believed it then."

Donald seemed surprised at finally getting a response.

"And you don't now?"

Mickey simply smiled. Donald shook his head slowly.

"You're wasting my time," he said. "You're wasting everyone's time. The cat's out of the bag now. Sooner or later, the regime will figure out how to make this music of yours. The only decision you have left to make is how much pointless suffering you want to endure."

Mickey said nothing.

"I get it," said Donald, "it's a moral thing. But morality isn't real."

Mickey raised an eyebrow.

"I'm gonna tell you a story," announced Donald. "My twin brother and I were teenagers when the revolution happened. I wanted so badly to join it and fight, but he convinced me not to. He said he wanted to become a party official and change things from the inside. He convinced me that his way was better, and that violence was pointless and messy."

Mickey scoffed. "That's why you joined the secret police? To change things from the inside?"

"No," said Donald with a chuckle. "When the war ended, my brother went to the party office to put in his job application. He was in the way, and a soldier told him to move, but he was talking to me, and he didn't hear. That soldier shot him in the head."

Mickey didn't know whether he was lying or not. The raw emotion of the event spiraled in more than a few slices, so clearly something traumatic had happened to the man whether the facts were all accurate or not.

"The truth is, none of it meant anything in the end. That soldier shot him because the chemicals in his brain told him to. The Whitegloves rebelled because the chemicals in their brain told them to. But put a bullet through someone's brain and all those chemicals leak out onto the ground into a puddle. Justice? Love? Meaning? None of those things exist outside of our brains."

Mickey could tell the man believed his words.

"A friend once asked me if I believed in destiny. I do, in a way. It was my brother's destiny to die because of a chemical reaction. Just like gunpowder's destiny is to explode when you put a match to it. I had to abandon my hatred of the regime because the chemical reactions in my brain wouldn't let me be angry at something as fundamental as chemistry. That's all the regime is. Just a bunch of people following other people's orders. And at the top? It's just a handful of people following the orders of the chemicals in their brains. We were born into this, and there is no escape."

"If it's all the same," said Mickey, "why not go out fighting instead of joining up?"

"Because if everything we know and love is reducible to the absurd acts of chemicals, then why not choose to live in comfort? Pleasure is as good a reason as any to live, and catching Whitegloves feels good. I'm good at it, and it pays well. There's nothing more to it than that."

"So you want me to choose pleasure?"

"You might as well," said Donald. "You've got nothing to lose at this point."

"You're a hypocrite."

Donald furrowed his brow. Mickey continued.

"You trust the chemicals in your brain to tell you that they are chemicals. You're convinced you're not religious, but all I hear you talk about is faith. Faith in your own understanding of how the world works."

Donald scoffed. "You know better, do you? Let me guess. You know how the world really works, right?"

Mickey smiled in a way that made Donald uncomfortable. "Have you ever seen your own brain? Have you seen the way electricity jumps across it? You never used the music, did you? You always had Goofenberg use it for you. There's so much you don't know."

Donald started to think of a witty response, but Mickey continued before he could.

"I'll do you one better. Have you ever seen your soul before? Do you want me to describe it to you? What you call chemistry is a joke. A toddler's understanding of what's going on. The scientists who came up with it tore a page of out of God's textbook and called themselves doctors. So don't tell me that love and justice and meaning are chemicals, when you don't even know what a chemical is."

"Educate me then," said Donald. "Tell me what I don't know."

"Nice try, but it's not gonna be like that. You and I are the same, except I know I know nothing, and you still think you understand. There's only one choice left for us to make now."

"What's that?"

Mickey paused.

"Will you fight? Or will you perish like a dog?"

The next three days were some of the most stressful Minnie had ever lived through. Mickey spent the first two blinking messages to Minnie assuring her that he was alright and telling her not to come for him. The messages stopped on the third day, when his music drifted out of alignment. Minnie ignored his pleading for her to stay away and not risk a rescue. She was going to free him or die trying.

Minnie had taken the precaution of masking her signature on as many different slices as she could, in case George was still looking for her. This would buy her a bit of time, but it didn't help with the main problem. Somehow, she had to break Mickey out of his jail cell, and she had to do it alone. The task seemed increasingly impossible the more she considered it.

Minnie went over every detail of the building from thousands of different angles. On its face, the Central Intelligence building was a simple office complex, but deep underground, it housed a network of high security jail cells for political prisoners. There were no windows on the first floor, and the only entrance was at the front, guarded by a dozen armed soldiers. The only entrance to the bunker was at the bottom of a stairwell, where a great metal door was guarded by two soldiers. Miserably, Minnie realized that the door could only be opened by two keys turning at once on opposite sides of the room. Finally, deeper still in the prison, in front of Mickey's cell stood four more armed guards, one of whom held the key to the cell itself.

To even get into the building, Minnie would need a badge or a code, and codes were only given to members of the secret police. A thorough profiling of every employee in the building revealed to Minnie that there were no female members of the secret police. Even if she got a code, they would never let her in, and even if she got Mickey out of the cell, she would have to walk him past almost a hundred people. Further investigation revealed that they had taken Mickey's clothes and replaced them with a bright orange jumpsuit. He would stand out like a mirror in the desert.

Minnie wanted to cry. Mickey was trapped because of her, and now she couldn't even figure out how to free him. She had failed, and even with the power of the 4th dimensional music, there was nothing she could think to do. Minnie barely slept, and spent all day pouring over the fountain of information that welled up from the Central Intelligence building. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she let every detail sink into her brain. What type of music the employees listened to. What type of food they ate for lunch. Who was angry at whom. The intricate webbing of relationships and useless trivia coalesced into a stormcloud in Minnie's head, until at last, lightning struck. The beginnings of a plan took root. It was incredibly risky, but it was the best plan she had.

Minnie walked down the stairs and greeted the matron of the bed and breakfast, who smiled cordially.

"Are you doing all right, dear?"

"I'm feeling much better," said Minnie. "Thank you for letting me stay here, I'll be out of your hair soon."

"It's quite alright, take as long as you need," said the woman, noticing that Minnie had on her coat. "Are you heading out?"

There was something she needed for the plan to work. One essential component that couldn't be substituted. Without it, there was no hope of the plan succeeding.

"Yes, I think I'll walk around a bit today," said Minnie, "but I want to ask you something first."

"Anything."

Minnie smiled sweetly. "Where can I buy some shrimp?"