“Sometimes it is said that man cannot be trusted with the government of himself. Can he then be trusted with the government of others?”

Thomas Jefferson

“Stop fighting me, Trials.”

Trials was lying propped against the side of the wall of the same atrium he had been knocked unconscious in, cold water thrown by Korez pouring off his face. Even in his stupor, Trials stored away the useful knowledge that his opponents didn’t know how rapid his recovery rate truly was. He’d regained consciousness barely seconds after the unexpected blow to the back of his head, but did not reveal this. As long as they thought they had him under control they would stop torturing Mike, and perhaps once more relax, so he feigned a wooziness and disconcertedness as he looked around.

The atrium was not wide, but wider by far than the passageways that opened into it. The walls curved together at the top to make a shallow dome a little more than the height of a tall man, offering sufficient room to stand but not much else. The walls were bare stone, free of decoration or imagery, but the same rows of shelves filled every side. In the centre was a stone plinth, its surface bare.

Four mercenaries stood guard, one each beside the four tunnels leading into the chamber, rifles hanging low at their waists. Korez stood eyeballing Trials a few metres away, the water bottle he had used to splash Trials hanging loosely in his hand.

Mike was lying nearby, fallen on his back, unmoving but alive, shallow breaths causing his chest to rise and fall. Trials looked for signs of injuries, and saw none at first. Even Mike’s face had begun to heal, the livid purples faded to yellow, the bruises smaller.

It took him a while to notice the two small pink things lying near his friend, near the discarded machete, and then it was obvious. Mike’s left hand was missing two fingers, a trail of crimson oozing from the stumps.

Trials allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief – the loss of fingers, while incredibly painful, was not a life-threatening injury.

His relief was short-lived. A thought crossed his mind, a sudden wariness. Matterson was not the sort of man to worry about inflicting injury upon another, so why had he taken what might even be termed care to not seriously injure his hostage? There was only one answer Trials could come up with.

Matterson wanted Mike for his specialised knowledge. Matterson wanted the nanites himself.

“Are you listening, Trials? You don’t have to fight me.”

Trials turned his head to face Matterson.

“You think so?” he replied. “You think we can be friends, do you?”

Matterson ignored the remark.

“Did you see the frescoes on your way in, Jake?” he asked.

Trials said nothing, but allowed his head to sway a little. He reached up with his hand and groaned, feeling the already half-healed gash on the side of his temple. With a hiss of pain that was only half-feigned, he cracked open the scar to allow fresh blood to flow, smearing it down the side of his cheek as his hand fell limply to his side. He was confident he looked in far worse condition than he actually was, but every little helped.

“Did you know that Christianity was a slave religion, Jake? These catacombs were built by the poor and the enslaved, as were most of the others that dot this region. Often persecuted, ignored, oppressed, tyrannised, they were the controlled; this was where they buried their dead. And then, suddenly, just a few generations later, they were the ones who controlled. At least, that is the story.”

Matterson was leaning against the central plinth, toying with a skull he must have taken from one of the shelves. He rolled it from hand to hand, keeping the eye sockets facing towards him, not taking his eyes off it as he spoke.

“But who do you really think was in control, hmm?” Matterson continued. “The poor slaves who spread the message to those in power? The bishops and wise men who advised the emperor, guided the consuls? The consuls who adopted the religion of the people of the book? The emperor himself, using Christianity for his own ends?”

The skull stopped in its tracks and rested in Matterson’s palm, and he stared deeply into the eyeless sockets as if seeking some reply.

“Surely, then, if no-one is truly in control, it is the idea that has power. The idea that reproduces itself and makes servants of the meek and bold, disciples of the frail and strong. When a man devotes his own life, sacrifices his own wants and desires, gives his very essence to a belief, he is once more a slave, a tool by which the idea spreads itself further.”

“I know this. I was trained with your father, remember?”

And indeed Trials did know this. It was a key part of the Ministry’s rationale for existing: ideas were powerful and dangerous things, virulent and contagious.

“But you never made the necessary steps in logic to see where this conception inevitably leads, did you?” asked Matterson, as if seeing into Trials’ thoughts. “You think I am the greatest threat in this room. Me, who has to hide down amongst the long-ago dead in fear of capture.” He gestured around the room at its bare, dusty surfaces.

Matterson’s gaze locked on Trials’.

“Think, Trials. For once in your life, think.”

Trials thought.

Matterson was clearly insane. Coldly, clinically insane, but insane nonetheless. Sane people didn’t casually murder and maim without a second’s thought. What did he mean, that he wasn’t the greatest threat in the room?

The Ministry sought to prevent dangerous ways of thinking from spreading out of control, tried to detect and prevent extremism from threatening the fabric of society. And it did it well. Certainly, it had to delve into less salubrious methods to do so, but sometimes the ends justified the means…

..didn’t they?

Matterson and Matthews both said that ideas control, that they behaved like a virus. What was wrong with containing a virus?

Of course, controlling a virus was a very different thing, but the Ministry didn’t work like that.

It did limit information and control its dispersal. It also engaged in espionage and sabotage that was illegal and in many cases ethically dubious. Trials carried the evidence of this in his blood.

The Ministry operated in a moral grey area that shaded into black so far that it had inspired a counterpart, a disparate group of people passionate enough about stopping it that they gathered together from all walks of life. Why was the Organisation working so hard to bring the actions of Trials and the others into the light?

“You don’t think we can be trusted,” said Trials eventually.

Matterson burst out laughing, one hand clutching at his side.

“Oh, I see why my father was so excited to find you,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “You are so willing to take responsibility, so eager to be a part of something bigger than you that you won’t allow yourself to see you’re just a cog in the machine. You’re a tool, Trials, a tool to be used and discarded at will.”

Matterson looked from Trials to one of the mercenaries and nodded his head, and the mercenary disappeared down one of the tunnels. No-one spoke until he returned, now accompanied by another merc and between them, hanging limply and unconscious, Matthews.

“I know he can’t be trusted,” said Matterson, as Matthews was dumped face-down without care to the floor next to him.

Matterson pushed at his father’s head with his foot, lifting it to look at his insensible expression.

“He’s pretending to be unconscious, much as you are pretending to be befuddled.”

Trials couldn’t quite suppress his reaction to this sudden statement.

“I read tells, Trials,” said Matterson as he let his father’s face fall back to the dirt. “Everyone has them, to one degree or another. You are a book to me, and I know you are not nearly as injured as you are hoping we shall think you are.”

Korez and the guards shifted uneasily at this news, hands moving instinctively closer to their weapons.

“They are marvelous, aren’t they, those little machines in your blood? Your friend here…” and he gestured to Mike, who groaned in his torpor, “… is really quite the genius. It was unfortunate for him his friend was quite the thief.”

Matterson turned to the sprawled form of Matthews.

“Now, it’s time to stop pretending, father. I know you are awake, and if you don’t want me to start cutting bits off of you, I would do as I say.”

Matthews’ voice came back strong and clear as he pushed himself up.

“You will not call me father, Matterson. And you will not use that voice with me.”

Matthews drew himself up to a standing position, as tall and domineering as his bound hands would allow.

Matterson laughed.

“I call you father to remind your pet over there what we are…” he said, nodding his head towards Trials, “…not through any lingering familial attachment. And this voice is rather effective.”

Matterson turned to Trials.

“You didn’t know that this is not my original accent, did you? Of course not. The voice is a tool as well, you see. The tone, accent, enunciation, all work together to form an instant picture in the listener’s mind, long before they actually have a conversation. That is why my father affects this British upper-class voice – some modicum of respect still remains deep within the national psyche, most especially in you, Trials. It’s not his voice at all, you see, but rather the voice he chose as best suited to rising within the Ministry ranks. It worked fantastically, too.”

Trials looked from Matterson to Matthews, who was carefully keeping his expression blank.

“We’ve been at this so long I don’t even remember what we originally sounded like,” said Matterson, turning back to Matthews.

“That’s enough,” said Matthews in a low, calm voice. “It’s time to give up, Nigel. You won’t be getting out of this one. I have people on their way even now.”

“Really?” snorted Matterson derisively, “Who? Your Ministry is completely smashed – they won’t be organising any operations for some time yet.”

Matthews looked around the room at each mercenary, his gaze falling on each for a second before finally settling on Korez.

“You think you’re the only one who can hire an army? Really, my son, I taught you better than that.”

As he finished his words the room erupted in a hail of bullets, and combat-clad figures poured into the chamber.