The Freedom Engineer ~ Episode 1: Found Money (Draft)

Although her sister slaves would do it well, all were too subservient to excite him. The Boss Man much preferred his blow jobs from her; the Unconquered One. He was never entirely sure that she would not bite down on his cock. Should that happen, he would, he knew, efficiently cut her throat, and then put her in the ground. He watched the hatred in her continence. Her throttled rage made him feel powerful. And when she finally swallowed, he always laughed at her disgust.

She, who had no name, who did not exist, had swallowed it fifty times. And each time she studied him. She knew that he gripped the knife loosely when he orgasmed, and that twice he had let go the knife altogether and held her head in two hands, that once he had caressed her hair with lost affection. She knew that the revolver in his boot holster held 6 rounds. She knew how to release the safety, how to point and pull the trigger. She knew that one stab to the chest would not be enough to stop a man 3 times her weight from killing her. She knew she must deliver many blows very quickly from close range. She knew the combination for the alley side door. She knew all of this and she waited for her one chance to fight her way to existence.

She heard him whisper her given Chinese name. His two large hands were in her hair. It was affection of some twisted sort. The boss man forgot for one minute, that there was a gun in the room. He forgot that his threat to use deadly force against her was the only reason such a beautiful woman was sucking his cock. He forgot that power can shift irrevocably and all at once, like a breaking dam.

The Unconquered One drove the knife into his chest. She did so 4 times in rapid succession like the needle on a sewing machine. The boss man’s brain was remarkably slow to shift from the elation of receiving his daily head, to the realization that he was in a life or death struggle, and that his opponent, who really really hated him, had already struck. He clenched his fist as the blade sunk into his neck. Blood spurted out of his jugular and the low pressure alarm sounded in his brain, felling his phallus automatically. He bashed his fists against her face as she reached down for the revolver in his boot. Her jaw broke and her brain slammed back and forth inside her skull. She clung on the edge of consciousness as she clicked off the safety and pressed the muzzle against his flabby middle and unloaded all six rounds. At some point he stopped swinging, decided to die, and crashed down on top of her. She tried to push him off but the huge bloody mass pinned her on her back. She was not getting up. She heard the last sputters of the giants heart. She heard the footsteps of his comrades in the hall. She had failed. She drifted off to sleep...

She opened her eyes, suddenly alert. The Boss Man was not on top of her. He was not in her cell. She put her fingers to her face and found it unbroken. Another dream. She heard rain against the pain of her small square window. The murky light of a rainy afternoon illuminated the fact that she had made it another day. She turned on her bed and counted the marks on the wooden bedpost. There were 87. That number jived with the last tally in her conscious mind. She started scratching the 88th with her thumbnail.

She counts the days. She does not count the men. The men can be scrubbed off and forgotten. What she cannot forget are the wasted days; the trough of time in which she breathes, but yet, does not exist.

The sound of the deadbolt tightens her jaw. The door swings open as she finishes her mark for this, her 88th day in captivity. She does not turn to acknowledge the man of her dreams.

“Come on, Chinka Chung Chang!” growls the Boss Man, “Some John wants to look at you all lined up.”

She kept silent. Her name was not Chinka Chung Chang.

“Still count’n days, eh?”

She stood up, never speaking a word to him, and not bothering to tussle with her unkempt hair.

“Fuck,” snarled Boss Man. “You ain’t making it past 100 with your attitude.”

She followed. She followed only because her alternative was death. Although the Unconquered One does not exist in these days, there is a chance, she hopes, that she will exist in future days.

The sex slave houses of Cascadia are not happy places. The dim light did not hide the scabs and bruises on their bodies, nor the more subtle evidence of aggression. The barely dressed inmates are lined up before the John. The John’s name, unbeknown to the others in the room, was Tad Galahad.

Galahad studies each face in turn. He is looking for someone specific. Some of the women force smiles, one blinks away a tear, but none speak a word. Now, this last one on the end has more scrapes and bruises than the others combined. Her negligee is torn, and her long black hair, disheveled. She stares at the John contemptuously with her dark eyes, and he sees the momentary flare of a nostril, like a jaguar. She is unconquered. He has found her.

“I choose her, the,” Galahad paused, lacking a descriptive.

“The Bitch,” backfired the boss man.

Such articulation was kindly offered by the 300 pounds of bad ass biker who bossed this establishment. He had a fading Hell’s Angels’ tattoo on one of his forearms, but Galahad, who had actually been to Hell, sincerely doubted that the biker ever had.

The boss man motioned his head slightly and all of the slaves but the unconquered one, scurried back to their cells. She, looked upon Galahad with deserved disgust, as he compared her to a photograph projected onto his retina display by his hip-com. The open global facial recognition database indicated a match. Smile was missing, but that made sense. A voice in

Tad’s head chimed in with an out-thought he could not argue with.

[o Galahad? t] out-thought Samantha Smack-Bottom.

[o Yes Smack-Bottom? t]

[o It’s clear to me that all of those women are here against their free-will. t]

[o I agree Smack-Bottom. You may initiate the transfer. t]

[o I can also verify that the woman standing before you is Mau Lee. t]

Samantha Smack-Bottom was watching a live video feed from the Higher Plane. Tad Galahad and his Scout could communicate with technologically enabled telepathy which its inventor had brand named ‘out-thoughts’.

“That one is 1200 Nucks per half hour,” said the biker. “And if you want…”

“I want to buy her outright,” cut in Tad Galahad. “I want to take her out of here and not bring her back.”

“What are you going to do with a China girl?”

“You don’t care. How much do you want for her?”

A low rumbling laughter billowed from deep in his six barrel chest. “Two hundred thousand nucks.”

“16,000 cash, now,” replied Tad.

“Deal,” the biker backfired.

The biker was not one to haggle. He intended to take everything of value that Tad had on him anyway, so this kind of
negotiation was just wasting his time. Tad reached into his front pocket for his billfold and counted out 16, one-thousand

Nuck bills. Then he stuffed the considerable sum that was left over, back into his pocket.

“You sure picked a real bitch,” snarled the boss man.

Galahad ignored the comment, took note instead of the biker edging toward him while pulling a weapon from his pocket. He countered by withdrawing a Glock from deep in his jacket and raising it toward the aggressor’s forehead.

“Easy Boy…,” said Galahad.

The biker blinked. Gulped. The Balisong fell to the floor. Please note, dear reader, that the glock in Tad’s hand was a prop. He kept it loaded with blanks so he can still go BANG BANG to impress the rabble. The Glock was just a symbol of deadly force that Crusties could understand. Dragonfly technology was not yet known in common circles, so Tad couldn’t just tell this gentleman politely that if he attempts to use force he will instantly paralyze him with a battalion of nano-scale dragonfly bots which he deployed as soon as the biker showed a hint of aggression. That these little bots, have already burrowed into the biker’s brain. That they are in this instant, manufacturing a drug that would drop him to the floor like a sack of potatoes, upon one silent command from the Freedom Engineer.

“Be happy with the trade you got, man. I could take her for nothing if you’d like.”

The boss man leaned back on his heels slightly and he shrugged with tassid agreement, so Tad tossed the wad of bills down at his feet. The biker stooped to pick them up and then backed away, slouching a little in a feeble attempt to be less than the prototypical ‘broad side of a barn’ target that he in fact was. The biker spied an open doorway out of the corner of his eye, but Tad had dragonfly scouts engaging the biker’s reinforcements long before their footsteps were audible.

The intel from down the hall indicated two males with AK-47s pausing at the threshold to the room. Tad watched his big friend lower his gun hand slightly and he took this to mean that he had a hidden sidearm that he was preparing to draw. The Freedom Engineer issued a series of thought-commands in his tactical display.

[t Dragonfly: Paralyze A1. c]

[t Hood: Engage. c]

[t Dragonfly: Penetrate. A2 and A3. c]

Boss Man looked sleepy. Tad dropped his glock and pulled on his gloves. His hood sprung from the collar of his jacket and entirely covered his head. From inside the hood, he could toggle through camera feeds which would output on his retinal displays; rear, right, left, top, forward. As well as dragonfly reconnaissance cams from multiple locations and perspectives. He also had sensors deployed in every human in the building, both hostile and peaceful, outputting their locations, vital signs, and actions.

Galahad charged to the doorway to ensure he positioned himself between the bad guys and the good girl. The strong-johns he wore increased both his strength and speed 1000% over the average regular clad Joe. By the time the big ass biker had hit the floor unconscious and unharmed, Galahad was in the threshold to meet his comrades. They entered the room surprised to see him inches away. He collided with the forward one, who fell back against / through the wall.

[t Dragonfly: paralyze A2 and A3 c]

The last thug standing, squeezed his trigger. He looked confused as he stared into the silver hood because the face on the hood looked familiar. Rounds of 7.62 were expended at point blank range; each absorbed harmlessly into Galahad’s dragon-skin jacket. The thug screamed as the man in the magic jacket with the gleaming hood crushed his trigger hand against the receiver until bones broke. And just before he fell asleep, he saw that the face in the gleaming hood was his own.
Galahad lowered him down and gently rested his head on the other’s thigh. The other looked comfortable enough because the gyprock form fit around his head, shoulder, and lower back as good as any orthopedic mattress.

Galahad turned and found the big boss snoring. He bent down and took the 16,000 nucks from his warm, live hand and quipped, “Deal’s off, Crustie.”

The Freedom Engineer looked upon the unconquered one. She had picked up his Glock and was pointing it at the sleeping giant. She fired it twice. BOOM! BOOM! It neither woke him nor killed him. She looked confused and lowered the Glock.
Galahad retracted his hood and approached her. She was looking at him with intense interest. Her thumping heart swung on a string between hope and fear. He extended his hand.

“Come with me.”

She hesitated. How could she know what he was just by judging his face? So Galahad pronounced the one english word that a person such as she would understand.

“Freedom,” he said.

“Freedom?” she repeated.

She stepped forward, passed him the Glock, and took his hand. She followed him out the door and into the damp September night. She filled her lungs with humid air and tightened her grip on his hand.

“Where are we going?”

“My home.”

“Who are you?”

“I make people freedom.”

Water droplets danced on her bare skin, on her lips. And she smiled.

Freedom, she knew that word. She had been on a journey to that word all her life. The man who makes people freedom, removed his magic jacket and put it over her shoulders. Until this moment, she didn’t notice the cold. She looked down on her shivering limbs, her bare feet on the wet pavement, her erect nipples.

She notices that the man who makes people freedom does not look at her sexually. He takes her hand again. She thinks that his smile is as broad as a herd of cranes. She looks into his eyes and he just looks back at her, calm and clear. He does not turn away until she has had her fill and turns away herself. Then he leads her down the alleyway and they walk until they reach a dumpster. He presses his hand on something solid in the air that she cannot see. She knows that it is solid and smooth because the rain is streaming down it’s face. The face slides away to reveal a cylindrical room with a diameter of 4 feet. There is a half-moon shaped bench on each side. Galahad motions inside. The unconquered one enters. He points to a neatly folded stack of clothing on one of the benches.

“Warm clothes for you.”

“Thank you.”

He holds up his hands and says, “wait here”. Then he points to his jacket, so she takes it off and passes it back to him.

“Xièxiè,” he attempts to say.

“You are welcome,” she answers.

The cylinder slides closed and he looks in her direction curiously, then he turns and walks away putting on his magic jacket. She waits inside the invisible cylinder holding her new clothes. They smell fresh. To say that she appreciates them… well it’s hard to explain how she is feeling right now. One would have to be raped several hundred times in a row to understand why this clean pair of underwear has brought her to tears.

The Unconquered One throws off her negligee and pulls on her new clothes. She likes the sweater too, but she’s not about to get all sappy about it. Then she sits down and folds her arms, watching the man who makes people freedom.

A white van pulls into the alley. The van says ‘Chinese Cultural Society’ on its side. Galahad walks up and talks to the driver of the van. Then two Chinese, one man and one woman get out of the van and join him at an alley side door. The man in the magic jacket kicks the door and it falls off of it’s hinges. ‘He could have asked me for the code, but whatever.’

The three of them disappear into the building, and moments later they reappear with her fellow prisoners. The women look bewildered, yet they climb into the back of the van willingly. The two Chinese bow to Galahad. He bows back and passes them a thick wad of bills. They bow again, then they drive the van away, as the man who makes people freedom returns to her.

“You speak English very well!” said Galahad, as the cylinder slides closed behind him.

“I speak poor English - but you speak - terrible Mandarin.”

Galahad laughs.

“Two for lift, Carmen.”

The invisible cylinder started ascending. The unconquered one gripped a hold handle and looked around. The dumpster and the alleyway and the sex slave house soon shrank below her feet.

“Elevator?”

“Yes, of sorts.”

“To where?”

“My ship, the Higher Plane.”

Cascadia disappears as they climb into the rain clouds. The murky swirls of gray, spray and sway their little bottle on a string. She looks up, but she cannot see the ship yet. If she was a mystic, she would conclude that she never woke up on day 88… that the man in the magic jacket with the mysterious hood was Death… and that she is ascending above the clouds, not to a ship, but to nirvana.

However, she is not mystical, at all. The Empire’s schooling did not mush her mind, nor did the slave boss. She awoke this afternoon. She scratched her 88th mark on the wooden bedpost. She remembers the rain against her small window. With her own eyes she saw the slave boss drop. She saw the man with the magic jacket stop bullets, and she sees now his clear eyes and his wide smile, and she will see his ship.

But there was no ship. There was only wind and rain and this unbelievable and continuous ascension. Perhaps a dream? No, this can’t be a dream, because when she dreams of escape she is always the hero. Today she was a damsel. A damsel with clean underwear. She lifted her sleeve to to smell it. ‘Wow,’ she thought. “do I love this sweater.”

“Are you ok, Mau Lee?”

“She does not exist.”

“Are you ok... person?”

“No.”

She didn’t know who she was or where she was or how the man with the magic jacket with the mysterious hood, who could be Death, has heard that name. And the higher this bottle rose, the less she is certain that she is actually alive. The only thing that she knows for sure is that she is not ‘ok’.

[o Galahad? t]

[o Yes, Samantha? t]

[o I’ll talk to her. t]

The cylinder slides into the ship and ascension stops. The door opens. Waiting to greet them is a tall brunette with a ponytail straight out the back. She is beautifully absolute, and absolutely beautiful. She stands on a wide plane of transparent material which holds her above the clouds without any visible support structure. She wears a tight fitting black catsuit, which is consistent with female characters of this jeanora.

“Hello my name is Samantha Smack-Bottom. Welcome to the Higher Plane.

“Hello,” answers the woman who does not exist.

“You are no longer Mau Lee?”, confirms Samantha with a rhetorical question.

The new one nods. Samantha understands. Tad Galahad steps onto the plane and walks toward a control station some distance away. The grey clouds swirl beneath his feet.

“There is still some daylight left, Sam,” he calls. “I am going to take her above the clouds so we can charge.”

“Yes Captain,” smiles his Scout.

Samantha takes her hand, “I will explain everything.”

But first she pulled the new one into her arms. She pinned her face down against her breast. And the girl who did not exist yet, could not hold back the sea.

“It’s safe to cry here, Darling.” soothed Samantha. “You need a good cry, and then a bath, and then a bed. And in the morning, I will explain everything.”

---

There is only one bed on the HP. It’s a very large bed and it doesn’t bounce much, so one can find a corner to curl up in and a modicum of rest if one wants rest. If one wants fun... well, one can find fun. Tad didn’t name his current Scout Smack-Bottom for her Victorian virtues.

Samantha lifted the covers and slapped Tad’s bare arse to awaken him.

“Ouch!”

“Why did you name me Smack-Bottom, FE Galahad?” she whispered.

“Hush, you’re going to wake her!”

“Quite likely,” Samantha giggled.

It was a little selfish of Samantha, but she couldn’t wait for the woman who is no longer Mau Lee to experience a sunrise from the Higher Plane. Imagine a panoramic view from the most posh penthouse in the most beautiful city in the world… and then raise it 20,000 feet.

“She’s beautiful, Tad,” whispered Samantha.

“As are you, my darling, Smack-Bottom.”

“Aw, always the gentlemen.”

She brushed a lock of hair away from his green eyes.

“Have you given her a free-name yet?” she asked.

“I am going to call her Money, if it’s ok with her,” he said in a low voice.

“Money?” weighed Samantha. “I like it!”

“I like it too,” said Money.

“Yay! You’re awake!” cheered Samantha.

Money arched her back and pushed her chest out in a stretch that would pop wood on a fossilized monk. Samantha pounced on her and giggled like a sorority girl, but soon she backed off of Money’s portion of the mattress once she noted the other’s more serious mood.

Tad Galahad stood up and tucked his man parts into a pair of shorts. He was right, thought Samantha; Money needed space.

“I will put on a pot of tea.”

“Thank you, Tad.” said Samantha without taking her eyes off of Money. “I am ecstatic that you like your free-name, Money.”

“What is a free-name?”

“Well, let me read directly from the Encyclopedia of Freedom Engineering first,” said Samantha, clearing her throat with exaggeration. “‘Free-name – a designation used by a member of the Promethean phyle to represent themselves within the community – a free-name is usually unattached to one’s old world identity – also use pseudonym, alias or nym.’ And I will add that all Prometheans have a free-name. It is tradition that the Promethean who brought you into our phyle is the one who names you.”

Samantha rolled up to her knees, “Now come on Money, it’s only a few minutes until the sunrise.”

She took Money by the hand and hauled her out of bed. Money wore one of Tad’s old shirts that read ‘Smoking is Healthier than Fascism’ and a pair of crisp white panties that made her buttucks seem like untouchable territory. Samantha wore not a stitch.

Money looked at the city beneath her feet through the plane... she walked gingerly as if it was glass so Samantha let go of her hand and performed a grand jetés to demonstrate the strength of the material.

“What is it made of?”

“Transparent carbon foil. It's only one atom thick but it's strong enough to hold an elephant on a unicycle. If an elephant could ride a unicycle…”

They met Tad on the bridge, which he had facing east. A pot of tea and two cups awaited them. As Money lifted the cup to sip, the sun hopped onto Mt. Spooner’s shoulder and illuminated Cascadia, which sprawled beneath their feet, in all directions, and on both sides of the old border.

She put her cup back down on the table, and she walked silently around the perimeter of the Higher Plane. She looked to the south at old Seattle, then out on the ships in the Pacific and the islands in the mist, then north to more sprawling metropolis cradled in beautiful mountains, then to the river valley in the east.

“I exist,” she said.

She sat down on a chair, picked up her cup, and looked upon the man who makes people freedom.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Tad Galahad. I am a Freedom Engineer.”

“Why did you rescue me, Tad Galahad?”

“Because I enjoyed reading your critiques of the Emperor of the East.”

“How did you find me?”

“A friend of yours is a fellow Promethean. He never had a chance to tell you that he was of this phyle. You know him by a different name. But we call him Wong Galt. It was he who investigated where you were sent.”

“Who is Wong Galt?”

Samantha tittered in her tea. Money looked at her curiously, but didn’t ask.

“A dissident within Shanghai,” Tad answered. “That is all I know of him. He could not afford to hire the Individual Defense Force to break you out, but I admired you, once he pointed your writing out to me, so I offered to break you out in exchange for two years of your collaboration.”

“So I am now a slave or sorts to you?”

“You are free to go at anytime, Money. If you do not agree to my terms I will gently set you down below. But no, you are not a slave at all. You will be a Scout, which is an apprentice of sorts. As soon as you learn enough about our enterprise, you will be able to create value for others, and therefor, make money.”

“What enterprise exactly?”

“The only one that has ever mattered, the Freedom Engineering Enterprise. Which includes all methods, philosophy, technology, and resources which enable intelligent beings to build freedom and to exercise free-will.”

“So you will teach me how to become a Freedom Engineer?”

“I will.”

“Then I can return to Shanghai, and give people freedom?”

“You can return to Shanghai, Money. But you cannot give anyone freedom, and you may soon find out that few people even want freedom.”

“I think I know what you mean, Tad Galahad. Where do I begin my studies?”

Galahad smiled, “You have begun.”

He took a sip of tea. Money stared into his eyes then let her gaze drop down to his bare torso, then down to his feet. He was standing on the sun.

------- (@) (@) -------

I am the speculative fiction author Ben Woods (which is a pseudonym). I previously published 'Freedom Engineering ~ An Anarcho-Capitalist Adventure Series' back in 2009 and advertised it on Free Talk Live which attracted a small but enthusiastic cadre of readers. The original 'Freedom Engineering' was a mediocre and antagonistic work, i must admit. And it's now quite dated. So, I have decided to overhaul the series entirely, title it 'The Freedom Engineer' and publish it here on Steemit as I go.

I am looking to collaborate with others of the eSteem phyle.

First, you can see that this post has no images... I want to find an awesome artist who would create one or two drawings for each post, kinda cartoon cover style. For this I would be happy to share rewards.

Secondly, I will need some scientific minded people to advise me on the technology used in the series. This is one of the hardest parts about writing speculative fiction; that is keeping ahead of the technology and inventing things before they come to market. The first technical project that I will need to get right is Tad's Skyship, 'The Higher Plane'. I describe it in more detail in the next episode, including the AI Carmen inhabits the Skyship.

The 3rd collaborator(s) that I need are readers to plug constructive comments below. Including edits, story ideas, whatever you think will be helpful.

Thanks!