2.10 The Key To Utopia

Silven admired his flash new tunic in a puddle, pressed up the paved path curling away from the chokehold of industry in Limetop, and entered the glorious headquarters of Silverlink Stuff. A smart, smooth rectangular hall with ample windows and minimal frills, it was a clear statement of where the new power lay in the sprawling business. Limetop had become its most secure stronghold; home, as it was, to the greatest secret the land had ever known. All that smoke down in the main town? That was little more than a cheap trick these days. Most of the demons had moved on to bring much-needed baths to the newly-installed peasant masters of old Stonepeak. It was crucial, however, that the mines and factories keep up appearances. If the authorities were to ever discover the truth- that each immense sooty edifice contained a handful of trusted men and women, casually picking up, dropping, picking up and dropping new copies of their orders into alphabetical order, Silven’s carefully balanced dream would be broken forever.

It was this dream that Silven laid bare to his most trusted colleagues in the hall’s conference room. He could relax here; his guards had lifelong memberships to the monster camps, and, because that membership included the bar, they had become some of the best-trained soldiers in the kingdom. The occasional Master of Deathness poked his skulled head around a rock every now and again, but by and large, they seemed to have gone back grovelling to whatever evil power had sent them. And, after the, what shall we say, ‘guided’ election of Sir Meow-a-lot, Mousecatcher to head of security, Silven could truly say he was a free man.

He began this meeting by dispensing the Official Tuna to said head of security before addressing his audience. Here, everyone knew who the true mastermind behind their cushy jobs was. There was Olgred, of course, whose principle responsibility as head of the division appeared to be ensuring a steady stream of tea, or, as his CV said, three months’ experience negotiating, buying and streamlining the acquisition of generalised resources. Simitest Almar was also present, having risen to the role of Head Engineer due to the outstanding qualities of his charming dickie bow and the impossible curliness of his moustache. And, amid a scattering of semi-serious random randomers of randomness was the stern and sober presence of Ulf Venstoke, the division’s accountant, who was currently huddled over his foldable desk inventing new ways to succinctly express the oogles of googles of gold available to the team. When powers of ten no longer fit on the page, Ulf was there to ground them, or in less polite terms, keep the atmosphere just about boring enough to justify this silly gathering as a company meeting of the minds.

For the third time, Silven explained his concerns, and for the third time, the carefully-planned façade of reports and presentations disassembled into a shambles of philosophy. Olgred waded in with the obvious. “So, you’re saying we shouldn’t have infinite stock? Think about it, man! There’d be a cart of ice-cream for every resident of the country. We hold the key to utopia and you’re saying we can’t use it.”

“Any resident loyal to the king,” Silven corrected. “But it wouldn’t work. Who is going to tend to the fat and lazy when everyone is fat and lazy? They’re not getting any reward; they’ll have a cartload of their favourite flavour already.”

“People will still work,” Simitest mused, twirling his ‘tache. “We can only replicate what already exists. The population would be free to pursue any art they fancy. Like painting outrageous pictures of voluptuous women, for instance.” He looked around at his fellows. “For instance, I said.”

Silven raised a finger. “But would you do it, Simitest? Or would you simply lie back and enjoy your own now ample collection?”

“And eat ice-cream,” added Olgred helpfully.

“There just wouldn’t be any motivation to better our lives,” insisted Silven. “Supply and demand is the keystone of our will to work. We’d just settle for lots and lots and lots of what we have already achieved. We would stagnate.” There were a few murmurs of agreement from the gathered manufacturers.

An annoying shrew-like chap in the front row piped up. “I heard you say those loyal to the king could reap the benefits of the Doll Sequence. What about the others? This discovery has the power to end war forever.” His cronies eyed their leader defiantly. Sir Meow-a-Lot glared for more tuna. Suddenly, Silven felt very outnumbered, but he pressed on with his answer. “I don’t think it would. A lot of the rebels use taxes and quotas as excuses, it’s true. But, at the heart of it, most just want power. At present, money is power. But when that goes out of the window, they’ll find other ways. More cruelty and bullying. Death to those that oppose their ideas. And we’d be feeding the hand that bites.” It was a catchy little expression he had been itching to use since three-o’clock in the morning, when he had laid in the dark chuckling away to himself for a rather worrying amount of time. Now it was finally out, however, it only received a smattering of cheers.

It was then that Ulf looked up seriously from his most serious work. “Everything must be accountable,” he imparted to the room. “Or else, we wouldn’t have accountants.”

“Thank you!” gasped Silven. It was a most unlikely source of aid, but he’d take it. “Everyone knows that accountants have been the cornerstone of civilisation since it began. We need someone... uninteresting to tell you that you’re better than the rest. Or else, we’ll have more desperate despots joining the rebellion from this very town! What would distinguish you from the crowd in Ice-Cream Land?”

There was an uncomfortable rustle in the chamber. “Rum and raisin!” called out an anonymous voice. More infuriating clapping. Silven sighed. He stood forward and drew himself up to his full height. “I propose the company become a fatherly order to the world, controlling the balance, ensuring not a single soul go without what they need whilst weakening the grip of those who would do anything to get to what they desire at the expense of others.” Someone hastily produced a violin at the back of the room. “We would watch over the kingdom, striving to guide the people not to immediate and obvious reward, but empowering them to achieve what we truly need...” The music swelled to a glorious crescendo. “True utopia!”

“And I propose we forget all that tosh and open a voluptuous womenfolk appreciation society in this here room every Saturday,” Simitest chimed in. “And what is this true utopia, anyway?”

“I haven’t thought of that yet,” muttered Silven. “That’s just a minor detail.” The hall itself seemed to groan. Silven rolled up his sleeves. Time to end this. “We all know who’s in charge here.”

“Herbie Sootroller, CEO of Silverlink,” announced Ulf, his chest swelling with pride.

“And who ordered three pounds of toffees for this all-powerful character?”

“The buyer of generalised resources,” Olgred pointed out.

“And who does the buyer answer to?”

Olgred looked sheepishly at the protesters. “Okay, I get it, Master. You’ve got us this far.”

The exchange had given Silven just enough time to think. “You do realise,” he began, locking eyes with each and every person in the room, “that the more stuff we make, the more you’re going to have to work?” Utter silence. Man looked to man for an answer. None came. He finished the blow with a massive, overbearing load of Immediate Reward. “Now who wants a day off while the managers sort out the manufacturing limits?” Ulf looked down and got back to accounting. Everyone apart from Ulf cheered and hugged and cried until they could think no more. And that suited Silven just fine. His mind had crawled to the edge of the cliff and seen the swirling depths at the end of the plunge. If he allowed free reign of the Doll Sequence, his arguments applied also to his workers; no-one was going to wallow in Limetop all day with infinite pleasures at their fingertips. That could only end two ways – the release of the secret, and the bloodbath that could only result from such unfettered greed.... or imprisonment of the manufacturers by his most trusted followers.

There was also something else that he finally had to admit to himself. Things were just moving too fast. When he first stumbled out of that prison, life was honest, simple. Not always fair, but in general, people got what they worked for. What they deserved. Oldeburgh seemed kind of nice that way.

His discovery could wipe that slate clean for good, at any moment, and it scared him.

“Hypocrite,” said Olgred in his ear.

“Huh?”

“You’ve just been wittering on about the apparent dangers of getting what you want when you want, and then cut them all off with an instant day off,” continued his companion, staring straight into his eyes. “Look how happy they are. We could be like this all the time.”

Silven waved a hand dismissively and wrinkled up his eyes. “Oh, shush. This philosophy thing’s making my head hurt. You’ve just acknowledged I’ve got us this far. Won’t you trust me again?”

Olgred looked pained. “My opinions don’t matter, master. It’s all just filler dialogue. Change the subject, and I’m as dedicated as ever.”

Silven banged hard on Ulf’s table. “Sixteen guazillions,” the accountant muttered.

“Quiet!” roared Olgred. “Master Silven speaks. And what he next says will be right!”

Silven coughed. “Errr, thank you, Olgy. We need to resume our meeting before you all slink off to the tavern. We need to address the greatest issue facing our department.”

“The auditors?” gasped Simitest, peering out of the window in horror.

“Logistics,” said Silven. He waited until the sigh of relief blew by like a breeze and gratefully moved onto the problem. “Trashbag Bob, are you here?”

“Aye, boss. Even ‘ad a shower,” croaked the straggly man in the third row. The covered noses on either side seemed to suggest that one was not enough.

“Why is he still with us?” groaned Olgred.

“Because he’s Head of Transport,” said Silven quietly. “The caravan merchants of Oldeburgh come in two types: cutthroats and scrap rats. And we’ve got enough cutthroats already.”

“Yes, armed to the teeth with our own weapons, surrounding this very room, cursing about being part of an establishment,” muttered Olgred.

“Amazing what a man will do for an ale, isn’t it? You will note Bob’s even removed that three-day bogey from his left nostril.” He raised his voice. “So, Bob, kindly explain the problems we’ve been having recently.”

Trashbag Bob staggered to his feet. The weaker-stomached members of the audience staggered for the exits. “See, it’s like this,” he drawled. “First, there was those lice from me jacket that-”

“Not that one,” interjected Silven hurriedly. “TWEDIS!”

“Oh! As you might know, those plants near HQ what we send monsters to the king in, the biologists have unlocked to send what we like instead. We calls ‘em TWEDIS flowers, transport with expanded dimension in space. We’re growing ‘em now ‘ere as well, in the courtyards of the mine offices, so we can pack our stuff in and then one man just teleports over to the customer with one easy ter carry flower. But now we’re making too much stuff fer that. We found yer can put one extra layer of loot in, so one flower can hold a few flowers holdin’ the goods. But we can’t do any more.”

Silven noted the worrying variety of green in faces around the room and gestured for Bob to sit. “Thank you. So, as you can see, we have a transport problem. We could hire more couriers to carry flowers individually, but it is a sacrilege to Benwar the Business God to operate with more than the bare minimum of staff. So, we have to do it the old-fashioned way again - wagons on the roads. But remember, each of those wagons is packed with TWEDIS flowers, each carrying more TWEDIS flowers, each filled with food, with weapons, and other desirables just waiting to be picked up by enemies of the state.” He pointed majestically in what he hoped was the right direction. “Warlord Wallace stands to disrupt our supply lines in the north. Further east, the rebel witch Zolar Ceneron blocks off the market of Greenholme and everything beyond. Efforts to push on would certainly result in loss of life for your colleagues.”

“And worse, loss of customer satisfaction,” Simitest chipped in.

“And worse, increased stock loss,” added Ulf in his most serious of tones.

Silven looked to his heads. They nodded back confidently, urging him to continue. “So, in our latest managers’ meeting, we have reached a most grievous of conclusions. Silverlink is joining the king’s army as an official partner in the war against the rebellion.” He paused for the panicked chatter to subside. “Please, go into your bonus day off assured that this is only for your own safety as our operations expand. It is a measured risk, and with the might of our resources at hand here in Limetop, we are confident we can end this long battle, restore order throughout the kingdom, and finally secure the roads to increase our profits up to the quotas we shall establish following our debate today.”

“Yet if we just gave the rebels a share of-”

“No! Not this again!” Silven snapped, raising a scroll of parchment angrily in Simitest’s direction. “You see these notes? This is the agenda for today’s meeting. You see that first line? That’s the discussion regarding infinite stock. And you see that tick? That means that the subject has been closed. Gubley over there will have finalised the minutes by now, and that means we are not allowed to discuss that motion any longer. Corporate policy and all that. Sorry.” He smiled and carried on as if nothing had happened. “So, on that bombshell- ah, probably not a good choice of words... on that health and safety update, we will close the general meeting. Enjoy your day. Sir Meow-a-lot, Olgred, Simitest, Ulf, Trashbag Bob and I shall remain to open the war council. Bye-bye!”

The majority of the attendees filed away, the prospect of war and the rejection of free stuff forever largely forgotten as the real debate regarding the route of tonight’s pub crawl got under way. Soon, the inner circle of Silverlink Stuff drew closer around a desk. Silven, of course, opened proceedings. “Firstly, I must apologise on behalf of Herbie for his absence today, on account of an extra bag of rhubarb and custards I have just this minute sent to his office. The heads of other divisions shall also be absent on account of not being invited. I volunteer to speak for our own division’s Head of Security in this matter of defence, on account of the Head of Security being a cat. With your permission, Sir?” He reached down under the table and received a sleepy meow in response. “Thank you.” He leant back casually in his chair. “So, let’s get this over with. We’ve got a small army at our disposal; with the king’s aid, we can crush any of these scattered bands that block our trade routes. I propose we open up the north-west first, because Olgred and I are most familiar with that area. The main question is, do we send all our troops against Zolar or Wallace, or strike both at the same time before the second can dig in?”

No answer. He looked one by one into four shocked faces. He felt his heart sink without knowing why. Olgred finally got his mouth working. “We can’t use the security forces. They’re for security, not attack.”

Silven wrung his hands. “We’re at war. We can’t just sit back and wait to be robbed. The time is now.”

“They haven’t seen any action against humans,” observed Simitest quietly, stroking his chin.

“Our soldiers are all several degrees above the quality of any bungling militia our opponents have, I assure you.”

“But, they could all be lured into a trap and leave no-one to guard our bases,” protested Ulf.

“Fine, we’ll leave a full quarter of our numbers to guard Limetop and Overwall at all times.”

“A large army like that can’t manoeuvre around a marsh,” said Simitest.

“We’ll bring in some manufacturers for a boardwalk to his fortress and pile in the numbers.”

“We don’t have any reliable evidence of Zolar’s chain spells,” warned Ulf.

“We interview the king’s agents who worked with her when she was loyal, and employ scholars from Rockborough and Silicarco to adjust our strategy as her powers are identified.

“Someone might be scared of them marsh snappers an’ cause a bloody stampede,” Trashbag spluttered.

Silven sat forward. “I... didn’t think it would be necessary to consider things like that.”

“Yeah, and Zolar might have invented some sorcery that drains energy from everyone present and uses it against them in some huge explosion,” said Olgred reluctantly.

“I very much doubt that.”

“But it’s possible that lots of people marching together will resonate the mud enough to open a giant sinkhole and swallow us in one swirl,” proclaimed Simitest worriedly.

Silven looked slyly from companion to companion. “Whilst I disagree with your fantasies of disaster, I see where you’re coming from in regards to raising the army. We’re not used to this, after all. Let’s take in smaller, lightly-armoured, fast-moving squadrons which can react a bit better to any emerging danger.”

“And then what if deep in the burning streets of Greenholme, at the critical moment, some warrior finds out his team-mate’s been eyeing his girlfriend and we descend into a brawl? It happens every day. Too personal,” argued Simitest. Trashbag Bob and Ulf nodded their approval.

“Or there’s some trap door that closes behind the first person in and then he panics when he can hear them calling out, yet would have mentally prepared himself for the challenge if he already knew he was going to be alone?”

Finally, Silven’s suspicions were confirmed. His arms tingled. His feet rattled against the floorboards as he juddered impulsively. “So, you want to be the one to go in, Simitest?”

Olgred piped up for the first time. “Oh, but we need someone who’s fought before, preferably with experience of sneaking to his name, of talking his way out of fights he can’t win, who’s maybe already been to one of the battlefields before, and who owns a heating company.”

Silven glared at his friend. “What’s the heating got to do with anything?”

Olgred hung his head. “Just thought it might be useful. Sorry boss. We’ll start the search.”

Silven held out his hands in anguish. “Why? We could bury them in minutes all together. How could one volunteer do any better?”

Simitest shrugged, and looked around for support from his colleagues. “Just being careful. We don’t want to lose anything.”

“You could lose the adventurer,” said Silven steadily.

“But it’s the only way,” replied Ulf.

“Have you ever heard the song ‘A general, three captains, the Third Company Militia and two hosts of cavalry and the Dragon of Redhorn’? Thought not,” said Simitest through a grimace.

“Only you can do this,” said Olgred encouragingly. “You may look at your five-hundred strong force of fearless mercenaries and think ‘yeah, they might be useful’, but it’s only doubt creeping in. Be confident in yourself, and you can achieve anything.”

Silven sat through the babbling in a daze. He couldn’t go back to that chaos again after the comfort of the company. He had hated every minute of that terrible life. Now, he was only frustrated every minute. It was a vast improvement in personal situation.

He made up his mind. There was no way he was doing it. He’d worked hard to earn his right to choose this path, and he wasn’t turning away again. When the room came back into focus, he found his companions planning his route through enemy territory. Olgred noticed his gaze and butted in with a question. “We’ve got one problem, master. It will be best for you-”

“Not doing it,” muttered Silven.

“-to sneak in, but what if you-”

“Not doing it.”

“-come to a password or fortified checkpoint?”

“Yes, that’s fine. The password is ‘Wallace Rules’ and you get to Greenholme through Ridgecomb Manor.” He stopped to consider his words, confused as to their origin even as he said them. In his mind’s eye, he suddenly saw Elsenberg looking smugly down on him. He clenched his fists and sat bolt upright in his chair. “I’ll do it,” he said. “They die today.” He stood and nursed his calves. “Tomorrow.”