Rescue Operation (8)
A long procession of women stretched across the screen. Beyond them loomed a solitary ferry on the open sea.
Tap, tap, tap. I drummed my index finger on the armrest.
Still pondering?
The prisoners were nearly at the pier. Boarding would begin any moment.
To peel off the high-risk criminals, this was my last window.
City order. Respect for life. When we'd first drafted the rescue plan, excluding the worst offenders hadn't felt so daunting.
But now, seeing actual living people... my resolve wavered.
One decision from me, and dozens—hundreds—would be abandoned to die.
What if some got swept up accidentally? Botched investigations? Or maybe a few were genuinely reformed, reflecting on their crimes?
Setting that aside, did I have the right to condemn them on my say-so?
Call it a weak excuse if you want. Reasons to bring them anyway kept flooding my mind.
"If only I had some acacia leaves right now. 'Leave 'em, take 'em, leave 'em, take 'em...'" I mimed plucking leaves one by one.
Look, there's one.
"Huh?"
On the central control room screen, an acacia leaf floated into view.
Want to pluck it?
A chuckle escaped me. "Just a figure of speech."
This wasn't something to leave to luck.
Boarding will commence shortly. Manager, please issue your decision.
Rose was asking from the field command post—the core dilemma I'd been wrestling with: full relocation or partial?
Tap, tap, tap.
I'd never agonized over a choice like this in my life.
"If there's no right answer..."
The screen showed the endless line of women. Most looked listless and drained, but a flicker of hope, a spark of life, gleamed in their eyes.
"Then facing the consequences of my choice to the bitter end is the way to go."
I might regret this someday.
But that regret would be mine to bear.
Even so...
"If this place is the world's last ark, I want to fill it with life, not just survivors."
Unlike the brutal survival grind outside, we had ample margin here.
"Load them all. No partial transports. Everyone comes."
Understood.
I sank deeper into the chair.
Anxious?
Lying to Artemis was pointless.
"A little. Wondering if I've gone soft from all the abundance and peace."
I've run multiple simulations. Risk to city stability is minimal.
She displayed a chart: the prisoners' prior jobs, skills, physical stats.
Most were unemployed, prostitutes, basic service workers, office drones, small business owners. No one with threatening skills or the muscle to challenge our city.
"Figured as much."
Male prisoner groups often included tech whizzes, carpenters, engineers—folks who could cobble together nasty surprises if surveillance slipped. Even without skills, vets or gang vets could rally the rest in a heartbeat.
By comparison, the women were far lower risk. If the Offshore Prison guards had been men, no revolt would've happened.
Especially not against guards way scarier than any man.
Drones buzzed around, blaring the message.
First prisoner boarded.
Then a flood of women climbed the gangway, stepping aboard. Heels, slippers, sneakers, barefoot. Pale soles, apricot-toned, brown. Every shade imaginable crossed the threshold.
Drones looped the crowd-control spiel everywhere.
From port to island, we'd cleared infected corpses, hosed down gore and chunks. But no time for perfection.
Bloodstains sparked panic here and there, but security bots swooped in, steadying nerves. No matter how brutal they looked, those combat-ready hulks on watch brought calm.
Boarding at 50%.
The sheer numbers slowed things, plus herding over 2,000 on short notice.
Trouble cropped up midway.
Smack! A prisoner scuffle—hair-pulling instead of fists, a hallmark versus the men.
But it escalated to punches and kicks. Short-cropped hair meant no ponytail grapples.
Onlookers neither egged them on nor broke it up—just annoyed grimaces, shuffling away like, "Take your bullshit elsewhere, bitches."
No cheering circles like in movies. They'd been marinated in hunger and exhaustion too long.
Even the guards, huddled together, buried faces in knees, radiating everything sucks. Their filthy, blackened soles said it all.
Guards stepping in wouldn't help anyway. Stripped bare in the revolt, locked in cages for ages—their authority had evaporated.
Clank!
Security bots moved in.
Boom!
"Kyaaak!"
Shotgun blast—salt pellets rattling off the metal ceiling, pattering down.
Two bots closed on the brawlers; women nearby scattered.
"H-Hey, I ain't resisting!" The bloody-nosed one knelt, hands on head. Quick on the uptake.
Her snarling opponent took a rifle butt to the shoulder, crumpling with a yelp. Near-simultaneous screams erupted.
Bloody-nose went full prone, hands cradling her skull—like a crook facing down an American cop's pistol.
Tough broad; not the type to die easy.
The bot's gaze lingered on her nape, then moved on.
The bot eyed the groaning heap.
Then the prostrate bloody-nose.
"Y-Yes. Sorry!" Park bowed her head to the deck.
The women started terrified, but eyes widened at "exam, hygiene, medical, feeding."
No further incidents. Exhaustion, urgency, fear of new bosses, boss warnings—all meshed perfectly.
Next issue: hygiene. Packed shoulder-to-shoulder, the ferry reeked like a sewer.
Those first women we'd found bathing despite starvation? Freaks. Most had wallowed in hunger and despair, hygiene be damned. Now? Disgustingly filthy.
"Hope this doesn't spark an outbreak."
Short trip. They'll hold.
"Rose, how's it over there?"
As you said, the stench is intense.
Urk! A woman in the corner bolted to the rail and heaved overboard.
Tension spiked. Not seasick—we hadn't even shoved off. Illness?
No concern. Simple vomit from stench. Third case. Barely ate, so dry heaves.
Rose patted her back, checked her, sent her back. Slumped women glanced around warily; bots patrolled between.
Boarding complete.
Just when it seemed impossible to cram another soul aboard.
"Cast off."
Engines roared to life. The ferry cleaved the waves powerfully.
Aboard, countless women trembled, gazes fixed on the receding Offshore Prison—anxiety and hope churning within.
Empty pier. Empty prison. The hated, loved home fell silent.