He slammed the paper down on the desk, shaking the small porcelain teacup. “Those squirming progressives!” he spat from under his opulent curling mustache. “We were so close! We were on the brink of a contract with the largest shipping company on the continent!” His head hung in frustration for a moment. With some effort, he collected himself and stepped over to the window. From the foreman’s tower, he saw the workings of his newest factory. The lower class buzzed around on the production floor, apparently having heard the news; the mechanical churning and hissing release valves had stopped as they ceased work and gathered. The baron turned to his business partner already grumbling with contempt. “Smith, would you go deal with that?” “Gladly.” He stepped into the elevator and disappeared downward. The man’s polished black shoes tapped the planks as he returned to the desk. His hands rested uncomfortably in his pockets, and with a furrowed brow he again read the headline, as if ensuring he hadn’t missed something. No, he had not. His stomach turned, and his blood boiled. There was nothing he could do. The shouts of his foreman broke through the rabble of the workers; they would soon be back to their posts. His mind worked, searching for some inkling of a solution, anything he could grab a hold of to pull himself out of this oncoming storm. The imbeciles! Have they the slightest idea of the consequences this will incur? He let out a great sigh, and the soundscape of the factory slowly resumed. He reread the last sentence of the article one last time. “Builders will be accompanied by government-assigned inspectors; construction to begin end of the week.”
II
He walked slowly and with dignity despite the impending catastrophe that now cast a shadow over his consciousness. His factory slowly grew smaller behind him; its chimneys pluming dark smoke high into the air. The skies were dull and grey like usual; a drizzle covered his fine wool coat. “I wouldn’t worry old friend; I’m positive our colleagues at the clubhouse are formulating solutions as we speak,” assured Smith. “Perhaps,” he mumbled, staring ahead at nothing in particular. Today’s evening would be spent like most others. After a taxing day of overseeing the management of his factories, he and Smith would go to the society’s clubhouse to talk to the other barons of the city, indulge in some cocktails, and unwind; though, he suspected this particular evening would not be so nonchalant. As their footsteps hit the cobblestone, muffled shouts echoed off the buildings from around the street corner. A strong solitary voice cried out, followed by the roar of a crowd. It spoke again, and the crowd responded, this repeated as they drew closer. The racket escalated, growing into a rhythmical and victorious chant. A look of disgust formed on the baron’s face, as he knew exactly what the fools were on about. The two turned the corner into one of the city’s most prominent squares, and now the full volume of the crowd’s chanting struck them. The strong voice leading the masses raised his hands to quiet them. They could hear his shouts clearly now. “WE HAVE WON!” The crowd roared in response. “NO MORE ARE WE THE SUBJECTS OF THEIR MALICIOUS OPPRESSION!” The people shouted and threw hats in the air. He scoffed at the display. The filthy rabble had somehow managed to gain enough traction in the statehouse to pass this ludicrous legislation, and now they filled the streets singing of their fragile victory. “Come,” he said to his business partner. “We’ve more important matters to attend to than listen to this little speech.” He spat the last word in repulsion. The two turned and continued on their path, unnoticed by the celebrators.
III
As they walked, the streets become noticeably cleaner, quieter, more dignified. The smell of filth and pollution was replaced by floral scents; rowdy shouting became intelligent conversation; in place of rundown townhouses were elaborate manors. They approached the tall iron gate of the clubhouse grounds, and workers parted the doors for them. “They know their place well,” Smith said gesturing toward them with a smile. The baron smirked, twirling his mustache as the gates closed behind them. A short stroll through emerald green manicured gardens brought them to the clubhouse itself. Another servant quickly stepped over and opened the carved wooden doors. A gust of warm air welcomed them in from the dreary weather. Sconces and fireplaces emanated a warm glow. It was unusual. The clubhouse was so quiet they could hear their footsteps on the marble. Ordinarily, the place would have been alive with clinking glasses, bouts of laughter, and ambient conversation. Today, however, the gentlemen were all clustered together in one seating area near the fireplace on the back wall, quietly discussing the recent legislation. “You made it, very good,” said a plump man in finery almost as elegant as his own. “I take it you’ve all heard the news then,” the baron responded. A scrawny old man in a top hat spoke up indignantly, “Oh yes, we’ve heard the news. Hendrick was just going to share an idea of his.” “Indeed I was,” spoke the fat man. “It would be nearly impossible to meet the demands of parliament in such a short time, and as we all well know, not a soul in their right minds would purchase our assets in light of the situation, not even foreign investors. So,” –he lowered his voice and leaned in closer to the others— “I propose we… cut our losses.” Smith interjected, “Cut our losses?! You’re suggesting we leave the country?” “It’s the only logical choice, Smith!” “Abandon the new lineage we’ve worked so hard to build from the ground up? Simply submit our hard-earned power to the peasants?” “Well, yes,” Hendrick stumbled. “But for our own benefit! We mustn’t wager everything we’ve built simply for pride’s sake, and we’ve all read the papers gentlemen; there’s much more at stake here than simply our companies.” “Perhaps, but forfeit isn’t in our nature!” Smith said with passion. “If it were, we’d be out in those slums right now, living on scraps and bathing once a month. Gentlemen, we do not submit! We represent the purest source of ingenuity and grit in the modern world! Each of us has spent the greater part of our lives building our empires from the ground up, and they will not force us to relinquish that power!” Hendrick was already shaking his head looking at the ground. But before he could offer his rebuttal, the scrawny old man shouted his approval of Smith’s words. “Indeed, gentlemen! We will not give them this victory! We must simply abide by their rules for the time, and soon we will reassert our hold over this country!” Hendrick found his voice, “No! Stop and think, men; the rabble have already infiltrated parliament; they’ve demonstrated that they’re capable of taking control. And now that they have a taste for power, they’ll not lift their boot from our throats until long after we’ve stopped breathing!” Smith retorted, laying emphasis on his words, “They” –he pointed at the distant slums— “are nothing. We will force them to remember this in time, but for now, we need to let them believe that they’ve won.” His clenched fist slammed into the tabletop. “WE ARE BETTER THAN THEM! THEY CANNOT BEST US!” The group raised shouts of victory; it was decided. The baron had been standing by the fire during the debate, hands resting in his pockets. The pragmatic and analytical side of him agreed strongly with Hendrick; it was not worth the risk, but he also felt a powerful voice within him itching to let out a war cry. He was unsure. He watched the sun set behind the silhouettes of neighboring estates. “Come, old friend! A toast to our impending victory.” Smith extended a glass toward him. After a moment of hesitation, he stepped over and took the glass, raising it in a toast.
IV
He and Smith stopped under the streetlamp illuminating the gate to his manor. They’d been discussing matters further on the way. “You, I, and the others will emerge from the smoke of this fire and crush them all back into the dirt where they belong. We just need to regain our leverage, and our hold in the statehouse.” The baron twisted his mustache in contemplation. Hendrick’s words still rung in his mind. “You read the paper, Smith. Construction starts in three days, which means we have a month, maybe. Perhaps ninety days at the most. It doesn’t seem possible.” “It is, old friend. If the two of us work relentlessly until then, we will be prepared. And the alternative is backing down from our status, leaving those heathens to run this country into the ground.” He nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.” He needed to make a decision, and he may as well confront the calamity with his long-time companion. “Look into the necessary arrangements, and I’ll meet you at the factory tomorrow.” Smith smiled and clasped the baron’s forearm before treading off into the night.
V
He sat in the flickering light of the fireplace, a servant lowered a tray bearing a much-needed drink. The rain pounding the roof and washing down the windows did nothing to ease his troubled mind. He sipped on the gin, contemplating the words exchanged at the clubhouse earlier that day. One month. Less than one month, really. That was all the time he had. Perhaps it was possible to make the necessary changes, but, then again it was highly likely it was not. The consequences of failure would be far more than simple fines or the disbandment of his company. He’d already told Smith to prepare for war, but he was experiencing serious doubts now. What Hendrick said was beginning to make more and more sense; it may already be a lost cause, and fighting back could be their ultimate undoing. He could not know for sure. He sat motionless for a long while in the quiet of his study. The firelight glinted in his eyes; far away thunder rumbled. Hundreds of thoughts meandered through the crevices of his mind. The servant still stood at the door, ever ready for her next order. “Marjorie,” he suddenly said. The woman snapped to attention. “Fetch me a pen and paper, then have a carriage prepared.” She paused briefly as if taken aback by what he’d said, unusual. He had to widen his eyes at her before she moved. “Right away, sir,” she stammered quickly before leaving the room. He’d changed his mind. Perhaps Smith and the others were willing to risk everything for their status, but he was not. He would go across the channel, take some of his wealth with him and start anew. The economic opportunity on the mainland was ripe, and he would tap it for everything it had to offer. He may even be able to convince Smith to join him; it would be an incredible misdeed to abandon his companion, particularly under the threat of such a humiliating downfall. But if not, at the very least he would not leave without saying farewell. Marjorie returned with the pen and paper, then left again to prepare the carriage. He began to write. “My dearest friend, despite your best efforts, and my own, I’ve decided to abandon the factories and make for the mainland. We’ve been overrun, and our pride is not worth our lives. You must understand. Join me, Smith; we can rebuild our empire across the channel— larger and more powerful than ever before. Meet me at the port at the strike of two; I’m making arrangements for a vessel.” He signed the page, folded it into three segments, and made for the door; he would see that Marjorie got the letter to Smith as soon as possible. He sped across the marble floor of the hallway to the room containing his safe. After hastily spinning in the combination and heaving open the door, he began loading his wealth into a velvet sack. Jewelry, paper money, bonds, gold. When he finished, the bag was stuffed and almost too heavy to carry, yet the safe was hardly emptied. It would have to do. There was no time; he felt danger approaching from some unseen location. Perhaps he could come back for it. He slammed the door shut spinning the lock, hoisted the bag over his shoulder, and hurried away. The rain pounded down on the roof, and by the sound of it, the thunder had moved directly over his estate. He struggled to balance the weight of the bag as he pulled out his pocket watch. It was half-past one in the morning; Marjorie should be on her way to deliver Smith’s letter by now, good. He needed to get to the carriage she’d prepared. He struggled to make it down the grand staircase in the manor’s main foyer, and when he reached the ground floor, he immediately made for the side exit on the south wing past the kitchen. The source of his urgency was still unknown, but he felt it drawing ever closer. He threw open the door and was greeted by a rumbling crack of thunder and a torrent of heavy rain. The carriage was ready, illuminated by oil lamps hanging on its corners. The driver opened the door for him, and he swung the bag down from his shoulder onto the floor of the carriage with a metallic thud. After he climbed inside, the driver shut the door behind him and stepped up into his seat. “To the docks,” the baron said. “Quickly, I sense we’re short on time.” The reigns snapped, horses whinnied, and the carriage jerked into motion. He could only hope Smith would be waiting for him at the docks; whatever the unseen and imminent threat was, he feared it may reach his companion before his letter did. The carriage approached the open gate leading out onto the streets that would take them to the docks, but they suddenly slowed. “Driver!” he shouted from the back. “Why are we stopping? Go! Make haste!” The rain came down hard over his head, making the ensuing shout somewhat muffled. “Going somewhere are we, baron?” He recognized the voice, it was the constable of the police force. He shoved open the door and stormed over to him, jutting a finger in his face. “Why yes, constable, I am! And it’s not any business of yours where to.” “Oh but it is. There’s a curfew out these days, you know. What with all the unrest.” Three dark figures emerged from behind the stone perimeter wall, dimly illuminated by lanterns; his stomach turned. “Constable! Need I remind you that YOU are on MY payroll, hm? Step aside, and take your goons with you! I have somewhere to be!” The constable sighed. “You see sir, the good people in parliament are working to make this country the greatest on the planet, and though you may not like it, that starts with you and your kind. They’ve also given me quite a“ –he paused and smiled— “significant pay increase.” Just then, one of the figures behind the constable stepped forward, crumbling up a soaked piece of paper and tossing it to the ground at the baron’s feet. Emerging into the light of the carriage came Marjorie, his servant. Her expression made his heart drop; it was twisted between misery and fury, emphasized by the yellow lantern light and streams of rain running down her face. “Smith will not receive your letter,” she said, fighting back tears. “I am nothing to you, my family… is nothing to you. Nothing is anything to you but a device to fortify your own estate and suppress the will of the many. I work for you because I have to. My husband and children do too, in your factories, with hardly time or money to eat. They come home covered in soot and coughing up dark refuse every night; they would go to the doctor, but we have to give most of our money to your landlord so we don’t have to join the many on the streets.” Tears rolled down her cheek, obscured by the rain. “We have nowhere to go; we’re trapped in this city’s malicious web of poverty that you and your cohorts wove, but I’m sure that’s exactly how you envisioned it, Mr. Carter.” The baron stood shocked, he was not accustomed to the lower class addressing him by name. She continued sternly, “You seem not to have any regard for what you do to people, because you can’t possibly see your own actions as negative.” She stepped closer, locking eyes with him. “That’s going to change. By this month’s end, you will have no choice but to see yourself as we see you, an unfeeling monster. And you will not be leaving the country to escape that fate.” She held his gaze for a moment as she turned to leave. She passed through the gates onto the street, and disappeared into the rainy night. The baron’s shock wore off soon after. “YOU BELLIGERENT FILTHY PEASANT!” he screamed out to her. “YOU ARE NOTHING! EVEN IF IT ISN’T ME, THE OTHERS WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOU ARE PUT IN YOUR PLACE!” He made to run after her, but the constable and his men took hold of him before he got anywhere; he let go of his dignity jerking and kicking as he was overcome with rage. “I BUILT THIS CITY! I OWN IT! I OWN YOU, ALL OF YOU!” He was thrown to the cobblestones with a splash and a thud, then there was a crack to the side of his head, and everything went black.
VI
He sputtered a cough; the side of his head was horribly tender. Blinding light shone in his eyes, forcing him awake. His body was stiff from laying on a rigid wooden bunk. He took a deep breath trying to gain his consciousness. The air was stagnant and humid, with a tinge of some kind of odor. He fought to keep his eyes open. He managed to sit up and rub his head. The clothes he wore were baggy and rough, far from his usual finery. A look around the room was enough to discern his location, stone walls, stone floor, iron joists overhead, barred window, barred door. He let out a tired sigh. Sounds rolled in from the street; he shifted to look out the window. He had to stand on his knees to see out; it seemed his cell was sunken into the ground, and the window at his head height was at ankle height for passersby. Men moved wagonloads of supplies and materials past the window, suddenly sparking a realization in his mind. Construction. Just then, a voice came from behind him. “Oh, finally awake are we, Mr. Carter?” He spun around to see the constable, and everything came back to him. “You,” he growled, moving toward the man. “Open this door, and let me out, immediately.” “I’m afraid I can’t, sir. You’ve broken the law, and now you’ll take your punishment,” he replied nonchalantly. “YOU STOLE my property, you should be the one in this cell, constable. You’re fortunate no one knows my whereabouts, or they would—“ “I’ll stop you there, baron,” the constable interjected angrily. He leaned closer to the cell. “First, as far as I’m concerned, that money belongs to the people who you’ve exploited for years and years on end; we’ve already sent officers to confiscate the rest of it. Second, I believe some of your companions already know you’re here.” He stepped aside and gestured across the hall to another cell. In it sat a stately man whom he barely recognized in his present condition. “Hendrick!” he exclaimed. “Indeed,” the constable hummed. “We caught him a few days ago trying to flee the country as well; how predictable you criminals are. No time for chatting sadly; Mr. Hendrick is being transported North to stand trial for accusations of perjury, theft, fraud, embezzlement, and quite an impressive few more.” The constable unlocked the door and immediately shackled the man for transportation. “Hendrick! Have you spoken to the others?” His face twisted into vindictiveness as he replied through the rattling of chains, “Indeed I have; it seems that their new government-mandated enterprises are going… surprisingly well.” “What?” But he was gone before he could elaborate. The baron began slipping into a state of panic; exactly how long had he been here? He twisted around and got on the bed again sticking his face in the window; he squinted in the light, and slipped an arm through the bars, waving it around. “Excuse me! Anyone! What day is it?” Many ignored him, some spat vulgarities at him, apparently knowing his identity. Eventually, someone stopped at his little window. “You, tell me what day it is,” he pleaded. He could only see a washed-out silhouette with the sun glaring from behind. As the figure leaned in and crouched down in front of him, the man’s features became clear, his facial expression a conglomeration of surprise, pity, and anger. “My, you’ve seen better days, Carter,” Smith uttered to him. “Smith?” he stammered. “What day is it?” “Wednesday, the eleventh.” “The eleventh,” he repeated in shock. “Then they’ve already begun construction.” Smith nodded slowly. “They’re going up rather quickly.” Mr. Carter spoke hastily, trying to explain himself. “Smith, listen to me. I had written you a letter that was supposed to be delivered nearly a week ago, but instead of taking it to you, my servant betrayed me. If you bail me out of here, we can still make it before they finish; I want you to cross the channel with me. We’ll begin anew, rebuilding our empire stronger than ever!” Smith looked at him silently, unwavering; he lowered his head in thought. A heavy silence hung in the air. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet the baron’s. “I heard about your arrest, Carter, and I know why it happened.” The baron was quiet, a sinking feeling overtook him. “You told me to make the changes; I thought you were prepared to fight. Then not a day later I hear the news that you’d been arrested for violating curfew and attempting to flee the country. You’re a coward; you would abandon what we’ve worked so hard to build all these years. I thought I could rely on you to help me prepare our factories for the internalization, but I see now that I cannot.” “Smith, it was a mistake. Hendrick’s words got the better of me; we—” Smith was already shaking his head. “I think not, old friend. You’ve revealed to me and the others your true nature. You’ve already made your decision, and I’ve made mine.” He stood to leave, taking a panoramic look around at the supply wagons moving past, some of which were his. “The retrofit is coming along, Carter. I suspect our factories will be fully prepared with nearly a week to spare.” The baron could now only see his companion’s legs from down in the cell. “But,” Smith continued, “I’ve opted not to make the modifications to your newest factory; I hear that’s where you’re going to be assigned when the construction is complete.” “SMITH! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME! IT WAS A LAPSE IN JUDGEMENT! THE SOCIETY NEEDS ME!” Smith spun around and squatted in front of the window again to look Mr. Carter in the eyes. He spoke with austerity, “There is no place for cowardice in the society; we do not need you. Perhaps we never did.” He looked at his old friend for a moment longer, then simply stood up and walked away. “SMITH! SMITH! WE’RE PARTNERS! SMITH!”
VII
Weeks had passed. He was still in the dingy little jail cell, and he hadn’t heard anything from Smith or the others. The only reason he was able to keep track of time was the daily newspapers the warden brought him. This was certainly not typical treatment for inmates, but it seemed to Mr. Carter that it was a means of further punishment upon him. With every new issue, he saw updates on the unstoppable progress of the construction. Every last industrial sector and every freestanding factory was accounted for, including his own. He found an article about Smith’s factories, including a quote from Smith himself. “We’ve done away entirely with the coal-fired boilers; in their place, we’ve installed an incredible new technology. The machinery will be operable entirely on steam generated from heat collected deep below ground. The result is a factory several times more efficient, with absolutely nothing coming from the chimneys. We’re prepared for the internalization, in fact, we welcome it!” He tossed the paper to the side, landing in an ever-growing pile of daily newspapers. He’d slipped into a depressed complacency; there was nothing he could do to help his situation. Most of his time was spent pondering his decision to run away, and recalling his recent conversation with Smith. He knew the fate that awaited him, and the least cowardly thing he could do now was face it head-on with the dignity of a nobleman.
VIII The day had come, the great internalization. Ordinarily, the constable or warden would pound a baton on the bars of his door to wake him in the early morning, but he was already awake; he did not sleep the night before. The constable appeared outside his cell, somewhat surprised to see him up. “Trouble sleeping, Mr. Carter?” He did not answer; he simply stared ahead. “Understandable.” He took the ring of keys off his belt to open the cell door, and the baron held out his hands to allow him to put the shackles on his wrists. The constable then took him by the arm, leading him out of the cell, down a corridor through the cell block, past the elaborate reception of the police station, through a set of stained-glass doors, and out onto the bustling street. The masses rejoiced; they were experiencing the making of history. It seemed a sizable crowd had gathered to watch Mr. Carter be taken to his factory. They cheered and cried out in jubilation, throwing their hands in the air and clapping. Two men wearing black suits were waiting for them. The constable handed him off with a nod and a smile. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Carter.” They led him to the back of an open steel-lined transport carriage. He got in, and the agents both entered behind him, sitting on the bench opposite. The driver closed the doors behind them with the click of a lock. The cheering of the crowd became muffled, and the only light came in through a barred window overhead. They started moving, turning corners, crossing rivers, descending inclines; all the while, the cheering of the crowd never stopped outside the wagon. Their pace slowed, they did one final 180-degree turn and came to a stop. The wagon swayed as the driver stepped down to open the doors. When he did, the screaming crowd was again fully and clearly audible. The agents led him out of the wagon, and his eyes widened at the sight before him. He’d seen photographs in the newspapers, but the structures seemed much larger and more daunting in person. He recognized the street; they were standing in front of his factory, his newest one. The only difference was that now, an enormous amalgamation of trussed steel and glass formed a dome over the sprawling building. Through the triangulated structure, he could see the brick chimneys, as of yet not emitting smoke. He swallowed hard. The agents each took one arm and walked him toward an airlock at the base of the dome. His workers were there, looking more enthusiastic than ever for a day of work. More agents were there with them, going down the line with a large crate. Each man, woman, and child took something out of the crate, something black and metallic. A mask of some kind? He’d never seen anything like it before. They arrived at the doors to the airlock. His workers' faces were all hidden behind the ominous masks. The two agents escorting him now pulled the masks down over their faces, tightening straps on both sides, leaving no room for leaks. Agents turned a valve to open the airlock doors; the workers filed in one after the other, waving to the crowd as they went. The baron’s heart pounded in his ears, he knew what was about to happen to him. The agents led him into the airlock, and the doors clasped shut behind them. The second set of doors opened, slowly revealing his factory. He remembered what his servant Marjorie said to him the night he attempted to escape, that he would have no choice but to see himself as they saw him. His factory certainly evoked different emotions in him now than it had previously. They all went inside, taking up their usual positions. The baron was led to the elevator that would take him up to the foreman’s office. The doors opened, and he found his office exactly as he’d left it; the newspaper and teacup were still on his desk. The elevator doors closed, and the masked agents took up guard positions in front of the doors, the only exit. He stood in front of the window. The sense of power he felt looking over his factory was completely gone. He could see the giant dome over the complex outside the factory’s windows, and the chimneys on the other buildings, still dormant. His breathing became hastened and uneven. He considered trying to bribe the agents, but concluded it to be a futile idea; if the constable refused his bribes in favor of his government pay, the agents would certainly not budge. The office was enclosed, but far from airtight; it would only delay the inevitable and prolong his suffering. He felt incredibly ill, and his head spun. He quickly pulled a chair over and dropped into it. He sat quietly, watching the workers move around on the floor. They shoveled wheelbarrows of coal into furnaces. He closed his eyes; he knew what happened next and he didn’t want to see it. Machines slowly started up into their mechanical churning, buildups of steam were released in hissing sprays. And although his eyes were clenched shut too tightly for Mr. Carter to see, thick plumes of black smoke billowed from every chimney in the complex. But instead of fading into the atmosphere, it mushroomed against the ceiling of the dome, rapidly filling the air inside.