Free Matrix Man by William C. Dietz Page A

blackness of the other. "Yes, there is one other thing you could do for me. I'd like permission to go aboard the barge."
    Waller did her best to look concerned. "I'll be honest with you, Corvan, it's tempting to say yes. After all, the public has a right to know what's going on, and your visit might help the prisoners let off a little verbal steam. Still, I couldn't guarantee your safety, and they might turn on you. Nope," she said with apparent regret, "I think you should stay right here. I promise you'll have a front-row seat if anything exciting happens."
    At this point Waller looked at Captain Alvarez to make sure he was paying attention, and was pleased to see that he was. His face bore a sardonic expression, as if he could see right through her manipulations, but he made no attempt to interfere.
    "I see," Corvan said solemnly. "So, although you don't think I should go, you'll allow me to go if I insist?"
    Waller nodded. "That's about the size of it."
    ''Then I insist,'' Corvan said, knowing full well that he was doing exactly what she wanted him to do. Waller was manipulating him, or at least trying to, but that was expected. Like everyone else he'd ever interviewed, she wanted the story told her way.
    It was another half hour before Corvan was able to board a small launch and bob his way across to the barge farm. The prisoners had established communications via the prison's radios, and had given their permission for Corvan to come, as long as he did so in an open boat crewed by one person. They also insisted that both he and the crew person wear nothing but shorts.
    The hydrofoil's crew approved, since a chief boatswain's mate named Jackson had been selected to go and he was something less than popular with his subordinates.
    So it was amid loud whistles and catcalls that the two of them departed, with Jackson standing silently behind the wheel and Corvan doing his best to stay upright behind him. The wind was cold and he felt silly in his shorts and shoulder guard.
    Fortunately the trip was a short one, and the launch soon bumped into the prison farm's landing stage, where a pair of burly prisoners waited to pull him aboard. They communicated via grunts and gestures.
    One was white and the other was black. Both had used their time inside to put muscles on their muscles. They turned the body search into a mild beating. Pushing him back and forth, they took turns punching and slapping him around. While uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to some of the stuff Corvan had endured while a member of the Green Beanies, and he rolled with their punches.
    Strangely enough, neither one took issue with the robo cam which was perched on his left shoulder. Apparently they assumed it was standard journalistic equipment and therefore acceptable.
    After two or three minutes of kicking him around, they got bored and shoved him toward a set of metal stairs. The stairs were black wherever gull droppings had failed to make them white and wet with spray.
    As Corvan made his way up the stairs, he activated the implant's record function. Normally he would let the people know when he started to record, but it seemed a little silly under the circumstances so he decided to keep his own counsel.
    As he emerged at the top of the stairs, Corvan found himself on the lowest deck. A great deal of it was cut away, open to the water below, and crisscrossed with metal catwalks. Other catwalks lined the bulkheads halfway up toward the next deck, and these were thick with inmates. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Corvan with the same dull eyes.
    Lower down, the catwalks were like the spokes of a wheel, damp with moisture, and leading to the open platform at the center of the work area. The platform was circular and clearly used as a staging area.
    A single green-white floodlight lit the platform from above. Corvan saw that a dozen or so men were gathered around a raised dais made of cargo pallets. A chair had been placed on top of this