Free Matrix Man by William C. Dietz Page B

makeshift stage and was occupied by a man whose face was hidden in shadow. The whole scene had a strange dreamlike quality.
    Corvan recorded a wide establishing shot, followed by a slow pan from left to right.
    A voice suddenly boomed out over the vessel's public address system. "The king awaits. Let those who would beg his favor approach."
    One of Corvan's two escorts gave him a shove, and he stumbled forward. It seemed the voice was speaking to him.
    As Corvan headed out toward the central platform, he noticed that the catwalk was slick with moisture. The air around him was cold, damp, and heavy with the odor of fish.
    To either side of the platform Corvan saw the pens: rectangles of calm water occasionally roiled by the movement of thickly packed fish.
    Then he was there, feet away from the strange presence in the chair, suddenly aware of the hard, cold lump that had formed in his gut.
    The PA system boomed again. "Kneel, scum, and pay homage to his highness, Davy Jones."
    Corvan kneeled and waited for some sort of cue.
    "Do you acknowledge Davy Jones as king of the deep, protector of the guilty, and lord of all that he surveys?"
    Corvan glanced at the other men on the platform, searching for some sign that this was a joke, a way to have some fun with the stupid reporter. But every face he saw was deadly serious, and as each second passed, he could feel the tension build toward the point when something would snap. He swallowed hard.
    "I acknowledge that Davy Jones is king of the deep, protector of the guilty, and lord of all that he surveys."
    An audible sigh escaped the men around him.
    "Rise and take your place among the king's loyal subjects."
    Corvan did as he was bid.
    "You're a reop?" Davy Jones had spoken.
    Corvan nodded. "That's correct."
    "That's correct, your highness," the PA system boomed out. "Learn or die."
    "I meant no offense, your highness," Corvan said evenly.
    Davy Jones ignored Corvan's statement. "Why did you come?"
    Corvan chose his words with care. "I came to get your side of the story."
    Davy Jones was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. "There is very little to tell. Each of us told our story and lost. Then we came here to work and eventually die. Now, for a few hours, we're free. It isn't much, but it's better than nothing at all."
    Conscious that each movement of his body was a movement of the camera, Corvan looked right, then left, and up at the man with no face. "May I ask a question, your highness?"
    Davy Jones inclined his head.
    "What about the hostages? Are they all right?"
    There was silence for a moment as the prison leader considered Corvan's request. Then he stood and walked over to a control box which dangled shoulder-high from a beam far above. As he moved, Corvan saw that Davy Jones was strangely beautiful. So beautiful that his face might have belonged to a woman, or to an animated manikin, because in spite of his beauty it was empty of all life.
    As the convict turned toward him, Corvan zoomed in on the man's left breast pocket. And there, in neatly stenciled letters, he read "JONES, D."
    So his name really was Davy Jones. A common name, but in the hands of a man with a forceful personality and a little bit of imagination, the name had become something more. An edge, a way for Jones to elevate himself above the people around him.
    There was nothing unique about a shadow government run by prisoners, but one with the trappings of a mythical monarchy, well, that was different. Unaware of what the reop was thinking, Jones smiled and said, "Six hostages coming up."
    Corvan pulled to a wide shot as Davy Jones held the control box in his left hand and used his right to push a big red button. Somewhere high above, an electric motor began to whine. Out over the fish pens a series of steel cables suddenly grew bar taut and moved slowly upward.
    Moments later a long length of aluminum pipe broke the surface of the water and was quickly followed by six bodies, feet tied to the bar, hands