Ch.17Request Log #003 – For Gremory (4)

“Then, comrades, take your rest. We’ll go ourselves.”

Taking only the Idealist terminal with me, I exit the workers’ lounge carrying my bag. After distributing business cards to the workers sitting in rows in the corridor outside the lounge, I head toward the factory manager’s office, consulting the factory floor plan.

When we reach a momentarily empty corridor, the Idealist terminal—no, the Hive Mind within it—begins to speak in an anxious voice.

“Is everyone like this? Were all the causes we’ve supported just self-interest? The workers’…”

I cut off the words before another tedious philosophy session begins. After checking that there are no listening ears, I speak bluntly.

“Out of all the labor situations I’ve crushed, these guys are only the second group who didn’t strike because they had no other way to survive. Doubting a detective who specializes in union busting?”

“No, I hate you.”

“Fortunately, this time there will be people they hate more than me. At least I won’t get a hole in the back of my head.”

This wasn’t something I’d heard from just one or two people. The Idealist terminal begins walking mechanically again as the Hive Mind seems lost in thought, occasionally moving like a human being.

We pass through that corridor and emerge onto the production line. It was a place once permeated with sweet scents, but the processes had long since stopped… now only the smell of dirty dust lingered.

The Hive Mind in the terminal looks at the already-stopped factory with dejected eyes. But that sentiment doesn’t last long. Two other Idealist terminals block our way, wielding makeshift clubs fashioned from cut pipes.

“Who are you? Clearly not a factory worker… We told regular workers not to come out here.”

I wanted to laugh out loud. Regular workers. It seemed some workers were a little more equal than others. Instead, I weakly raise both hands.

“I’m Peter Weinberg from the American Federation of Industrial Workers. I came to see whether the Federation should support the strike at this factory. Who’s controlling these terminals?”

The two terminals in front of us begin speaking simultaneously. It was an elderly woman’s voice.

“Since you’re from the Federation, you seem to know about the Idealist Hive Mind’s voice. I’m the union leader of this factory. Come up alone. We’ll talk in the factory manager’s office. But before that… would you mind if we search you?”

I expected this. I empty my bag’s contents and hand over my suit jacket to the Idealist terminal. A change of clothes, a scripture of the God-President, and a basic labor movement book… anyone would recognize it as Federation belongings. I’ve never been suspected with this level of luggage before.

They pat down my suit jacket too, but the Idealist terminals weren’t sensitive enough to find the business card in my inner pocket. They didn’t even open the God-President’s scripture.

“Well, nothing unusual. Don’t think I’m being rude. It’s important to catch rats in this situation. Traitors who side with business owners despite being workers…”

The Idealist Hive Mind couldn’t recite its familiar repertoire about worker solidarity right there. This Hive Mind seems to be finally growing up.

We climb the stairs to the office floor. Well-armed Idealist terminals guard various checkpoints, and from inside the modestly furnished office floor, several more voices could be heard.

If I hadn’t agreed with the client, it would have been easier to stop the strike by clearing out all of them, but I didn’t want to refuse the great demon’s orders without reason.

Lowering my voice to hide it from the boisterous sounds coming from the office—like people drinking heavily—I whisper to the terminal controlled by the Hive Mind.

“Do you believe me now?”

The terminal nods. The Hive Mind was suffering too. It was quite a fresh experience to see one human causing pain to both a great demon and the Idealist Hive Mind.

“When you enter the factory manager’s office and start talking, I’ll reclaim control of the terminals. Arrest…”

“No matter how dead those eyes are, you can’t possibly mistake me for police.”

Had I never told this Hive Mind that I came to kill? I don’t think I had. It shouldn’t be a problem.

“You can’t kill. Absolutely not. This unjust strike can be ended just by subduing the union leader. Why would you need to…”

“Because within three minutes of opening that door, that union leader will try to send me to my grave. Does she look like she called me here to talk? Think about it. Nobody knows I came here except the workers. And the union leader is controlling your Idealist terminals to control those workers. In that situation, some bookworm comes to investigate?”

The terminal shakes its head. The hundreds of voices that spoke in such a solemn tone when we first talked, as if they were gods of the workers, had now become human.

“Even so, she’ll try to persuade you. She won’t try to kill you. So don’t go in having already decided. Give her one more chance…”

“No, this bastard won’t share a penny. If she had the mind for it, she would have been satisfied with Madam Gremory’s offer to give her everything she wanted. Before she gorges herself until she bursts and gets beaten to death by the crowd gathered outside. Chance? She already had chances. The negotiation teams sent by Madam Gremory were those chances.”

I was neither God-President nor great demon nor anything else. I never had the ability to give chances to others in the first place. The Idealist Hive Mind couldn’t refute.

Leaving that terminal behind, I enter the factory manager’s office. As the door opens, I come face to face with a woman wearing a one-piece worker’s uniform with her hands in her pockets.

We were at eye level. She was quite large, and like someone who had worked in various factories, the hand not in her pocket was stained with oil that wouldn’t wash off no matter how much she scrubbed. She puts on a friendly expression.

“Put down your bag and let’s talk comfortably, comrade. How wonderful that the Federation has sent someone like you!”

Her dry, cracked skin forms an artificial smile. If she really wanted to persuade me, we might have something resembling a conversation, however brief. If not, I’d just kill her.

I put down my bag and take out the God-President’s scripture and the labor movement basic book, holding them in my hands and tucking them under my arm. The union leader snorts.

“By the way, comrade. Did you contact the Federation before coming? You must have informed them of your destination before coming to such a dangerous place, right?”

She seemed to be thinking of attacking. I deliberately draw her in one step further.

“Ah, the two people who called me seemed so urgent that I came right away. There must be a telephone here, and if the phone lines are still intact, I could contact them from here.”

She sighs as if relieved. Then, still with her hands in her pockets, she begins speaking while chewing on a cigarette.

“Ah, the passion of young people. The last time I was at a factory, I stood with the company to stop a strike, and the person who came then was just as naive as you. Wearing only work clothes, they thought I was a union member participating in the strike. You really must be careful.”

She talks as if she’s some kind of murderer. She takes a step toward me and quietly pulls out a crude blade from her pocket, with bandages wrapped around it to form a handle. She charges, trusting her size.

I grab her wrist holding the knife to block it. She immediately tries to throw the knife to her other hand to grip it in reverse and stab down, so I release her wrist and step back half a step to avoid it.

By now the union leader must have realized I’m not from the Federation. But she seemed to think it didn’t matter and again raises her knife high to stab downward.

I grab her descending wrist from the side and add my strength to her downward thrust, changing its direction. The blade draws a sharp straight line and plunges into her thigh.

“Ugh… huh, haa… That bitch Gremory sent a fixer…”

As she hesitates, neither pulling out nor letting go of the knife stuck in her thigh, I grab her wrist and twist it. I cover her mouth with my other hand to prevent her from screaming.

“When you refer to someone else’s client, be a little more respectful, would you? And our kind-hearted madam would have ended this quietly through negotiation if you had acted less stupidly and known how to be satisfied.”

The union leader lets go of the knife stuck in her thigh and immediately steps back. She’ll try to scream to call the other hardliners, but the Idealists should have been reclaimed by the Hive Mind by now.

I follow her one step and strike the middle of her throat with the soft part between my thumb and index finger. Her breath to scream is cut off, and a painful sound emerges.

“Keh-huk, kuk. Ha, kkeuk…”

With her hands wrapped around her throat, her eyes confused as adrenaline surges from the bleeding, she wildly swings her fists. I catch them. I grab her extended right hand from the side, and with my other hand, I grip her wrist and break it.

I don’t know which hand she favored until now, but from now on she’ll have to get used to left-handed items. Thinking she might try to scream again, I take another step closer and strike her throat again with the space between my thumb and index finger.

Perhaps finding it difficult to maintain consciousness with the intermittent oxygen, the union leader’s body staggers greatly before rising again.

She has good endurance. Is that why she could help suppress strikes for the company side?

Though her eyes still seemed to want to fight, her body had long been in tatters. The twisted blade caused severe bleeding from her thigh, and she was clutching her throat with her barely moving left hand while cradling her right.

I take a step forward and kick her knee head-on. Her mind, delirious from blood loss, couldn’t even react, let alone dodge. Her posture collapses.

With a mangled pronunciation that couldn’t even become a scream, she reaches out her left hand and flails in the air. Her eyes were almost unfocused.

Still, Gremory must have decent aesthetic sense, as the factory manager’s office floor was covered with a red velvet carpet, so the room didn’t look that dirty.

Soon the strength in her waist, which had been trying to raise her body, gives out, and her body falls forward. I could have reached out, but I just let her die. I didn’t want to create problems with the police.

I pass by her and go to the factory manager’s desk. The nameplate had been thrown on the floor, but she had been using the desk neatly, thinking it would become hers. Not even funny.

Sitting in the comfortable factory manager’s chair, I find Gremory’s business card in my suit’s inner pocket and make a call. It took quite a while to connect, but Gremory seemed to have been waiting for the call.

“Is this the Erie Factory? So, are you willing to negotiate again…”

She seemed to know where the call would come from, but apparently hadn’t thought about who would answer. I cut her off.

“No, they weren’t. I pretended to be from the American Federation of Industrial Workers, but she immediately called me to the factory manager’s office where she was and tried to kill me. The first thing she asked was whether I had informed the Federation before coming, so it seems that was her purpose from the beginning. The rest of the hardliners are in nearby rooms. Should I subdue them too?”

Just by the fact that I’m leisurely making this call, she should be able to tell what happened. I was, as she said, an expert in these matters.

“No, no… If they’re in the room, just lock the door and… just make sure they can’t get out…”

Her voice was shocked. I couldn’t have imagined there would be a great demon who would be shocked by such things. The union leader should have known what kind of demon she was threatening if she had heard this voice.

“Will you be coming right away? Then I’ll just lock them up, madam.”

She was trying to somehow resolve the situation. Her voice suggested she had just realized the implications of authorizing the killing she had mentioned.

We always have expectations, but those expectations are rarely fulfilled properly. Well, I tried too. It’s not like I came in with a gun from the start and turned her into a honeycomb.

“Yes, yes… I’ll come right away, so detain them all and… let out the workers who want to end the strike peacefully. That is, the performance. What you mentioned, detective.”

Her voice was rambling. There seemed to be no point in letting her continue.

“Yes. Understood, madam. I’ll send the moderate union members to lower the union flag and raise the American flag again before meeting you.”

Gremory’s voice continued, almost pleading.

“Thank you. Please do that…”

After saying thank you, she takes a deep breath—”huh”—as if even thanking me was sinful. Soon the call ends. I put down the receiver and go out to the corridor where the Idealist terminal is waiting.

The corridor was packed with Idealist terminals, perhaps all those who had worked in this factory.

“Yes… as you said, there was no room for negotiation. But, that, no. This was the proper punishment and the proper result. Yes…”

Emotion is stronger than reason. It’s inevitable that a person who just died before your eyes seems more significant than a proper punishment. I pat the shoulder of the terminal that came here with me.

“Just detain the remaining hardliners. I’ll go to the workers. You wouldn’t want me to handle the hardliners.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Though he didn’t seem to be focusing on my words at all, he must have heard the instruction to detain them, as several terminals approached the office where the hardliners were gathered and blocked the door.

I take out the gun from the hollowed-out God-President scripture, put on my shoulder holster again, and place the gun in it. I remove my jacket to show the gun and return to the lounge where the workers are.

The sight of the American Federation of Industrial Workers member who had been proudly using words like “comrade” just moments ago returning with a gun draws the attention of people in the corridor. After entering the lounge, I speak.

“I’m a detective hired by William, Bartholomew, and Madam Gremory. I’ve dealt with the union leader, and Madam Gremory is looking for people to lower the union flag on the flagpole and raise the American flag again.”

A dwarf with a long braided beard raises his hand. He must have been quite displeased with this strike. He takes an American flag that he seems to have kept in the workers’ lounge and goes outside.

The shouting that had been echoing through the factory for quite some time changes to cheers, audible even from here. The patriotic gentlemen of the Veterans Association should be satisfied with this, and Gremory will arrive soon.

Looking at the workers who were still in the workers’ lounge and the corridor in front of it, seemingly still not fully understanding the situation, I say:

“Willy, Tolly. Madam Gremory is coming too—are you going to stay there?”

Those two wouldn’t. They didn’t know what had happened in the factory manager’s office, and they wouldn’t know more than a vague idea in the future, so they stood up with eyes shining with respect. The other workers were the same.