Conversation · Joyce Messier

"Heavens no, I'm not an undercover agent. There's a shortwave at the ship's wheel," she nods toward the sloop's cabin.

Nothing is inaccessible.

"One must be the goon in ill-fitting work clothes by the harbour gates. The scab leader."

"That may be so." She is poised and unperturbed. "I still hope you heed my advice -- there's no need to kick the hornet's nest."

"For all your talk of averting this catastrophe, the situation at the gates is a powder keg. Does this not bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me, lieutenant, but my hands are tied. How would my employer react if it appeared I were intervening on behalf of the Union?"

"Your concern may be appearances. Ours is keeping the peace."

The situation at the gates is a powder keg. She says she wants to avert catastrophe but that's where she draws the line? I call bullshit.

"I had another question for you."

"I hope I can answer it better."

One must be at the harbour gates, causing trouble. Directing strikebreakers perhaps? You can hear the sounds of the ruckus coming from there all the time.

This is so embarrassing. You have no idea. There's something wrong with your brain. Luckily the lieutenant still has his.

"Ma'am, with all due respect -- I've been around Martinaise and there's a giant hulk of a man in ill-fitting clothes at the harbour gates. Mr. 'Right to Work.' His heart really isn't in it."

"Not a terribly good actor that one. Still..."

"And the other must be in one of the four-story buildings overlooking the roundabout. He or she was reporting back to you while we were canvassing the lorry drivers."

"That would afford a good vantage point." She nods, poised and unperturbed. "Still -- I hope you heed my advice. There's no need to kick the hornet's nest."

No idea. Maybe she's right -- it's a better idea not to confront them? Also, there's something wrong with your brain. This was so easy, how could you fail it?

"Okay, I'll steer clear for the moment."

"Vigilantes? The RCM gets its authority from the Coalition. Where does theirs come from?"

"Somehow I doubt that lecturing them on the legitimate use of force will persuade them to stand down."

"I still need to know where they are."

"You're likely to run into them eventually. When that happens, I'll be in a better position to mediate if I don't appear involved."

"I'll confront them directly."

"I'm glad we reached an agreement without turning the RCM into your personal investigative unit."

"Do not gloat, officer. These are grave matters."

It only lasts for the briefest instance but you catch a look of disappointment in her eye. Anger even.

"How are the lynching and the strike connected?"

"I have an indirect role to play, I'm sad to say. My employer experienced a momentary lapse of faith in me. In that moment they elected to deploy a private military contractor. As an insurance measure. They called it my 'security detail'."

"A momentary lapse of faith?"

"They were dispatched after I relayed the Union's initial offer."

"Every worker..."

"...a member of the board," she nods. "I tried to convince my employer it was simply a piece of rhetoric -- or a joke. They did not appreciate the humour."

"Do you need a security detail?"

"Absolutely not. These mercenaries are muscle, pure and simple. They are meant to intimidate the Union into surrendering."

"Who are they, exactly?"

"Krenel -- an Oranjese military company. As far as I know three arrived in Martinaise. They report to me sporadically, but they do not answer to me. To be frank, our relationship is deteriorating."

"They wear ceramic armour, have semi-automatic weapons and years of combat experience. They also have Trauma-and-Stressor Disorder and no idea how to conduct themselves in an urban civilian environment."

"So what happened?"

"The story is, one of them, the colonel -- I don't know his real name -- sexually assaulted a local woman. While he was drunk and separated from his unit. This allowed some of the more militant Union members to subdue him."

"He was taken out behind the Whirling-in-Rags and lynched. Last Sunday night."

"What then?"

"Nothing. Mr. Claire refuses to let me into the harbour. I have not been able to discuss this matter with anyone there. The remaining two Krenel contractors carry out their orders -- for now."

"For now?"

"It's a smokescreen. In secret, they are conducting an independent military tribunal into the lynching. Once this investigation is concluded, executions will follow."

"What is the nature of this so-called investigation?"

"Whether to execute one, some, or all of the Union militants."

It'll be all of them. The decision is already made.

Investigation upon investigation, here in Martinaise, racing toward some dark deadline.

"Maybe the investigations can team up? You know, share resources and intelligence."

"Surely you're joking. These people are killers. My only hope is that yours provides a single, concrete suspect -- before they indiscriminately pick theirs. Simply put..." She grabs hold of the mainsail:

"If you don't pin this on someone good -- and do it fast -- they will identify and execute everyone present at the lynching. This, in turn, will force the Union to respond."

They would have to. To project strength and power.

"The Débardeurs have over two thousand men. It will be a thousand to one."

"Have you ever seen a hornet invade a beehive, lieutenant?" She leans back. "It's not pretty."

The Seraise Giant Hornet, the world's second largest insect, can kill forty honey bees a minute while a group of 30 can decimate an entire hive of 20,000 bees in less than four hours.

"These men work in tandem using semi-and fully automatic firearms. Their armour is virtually impenetrable to muzzle-loaded weapons -- even yours. Most Union workers don't have guns at all..."

The muzzle-loaders need to be reloaded after every one, two -- or in your case three -- shots, the automatics every one or two minutes.

She is silent for a moment, then concludes: "As I said -- a blood bath."

Maybe a good bloodletting is just what Martinaise needs?

Houses drenched in red, blood gushing down Rue Saint-Cispare... the whole place mopped with a giant red rag! Fresh bullet holes for all the old buildings...