Interview with a Micro
The meeting place was a bar, called "the Jubilation." It was a small, lonely little place at the end of the block, extremely gloomy, though no place was exactly cheery anymore. The acts of terrorism, carried out by the Micro Liberation Army (MLA), had grown more brazen, more cruel, more violent, but none so volatile as what had happened last week. They managed to release a toxin into the water supply of the city. So far, ninety people have died, mostly children and elderly who didn't have the strength to fight off the plague. Hundreds more have been incapacitated, putting an enormous strain on the hospitals and the jobs that they can no longer perform. Micros Incorporated, the state's largest breeder and supplier of micros, has ceased production for undisclosed reason, though there is word that micros are still being sold, though at quadruple their normal price. Macros have taken to the streets, putting any micros they can find into the middle of pens then making a public show of their executions. And lastly, the Micro Liberation Army, with a video sent to various news stations, have stated the attacks will continue until a micro state is established.
Yesterday, when I was checking my e-mails, I found a message from someone claiming to be Captain Nine, chief bomb maker of the MLA. He offered an exclusive interview if I came to this bar, alone, at just the right time.
I did have to wonder why this particular bar was chosen. I would have imagined the micro would want to meet in someplace public, with lots of places to escape to, and lots of feet he could climb over to disappear. Stepping into the bar, my eyes did a quick scan of the area. It was late, two in the morning. As near as I could tell, there was a burly bear passed out over the bar, snoring loudly, and the bartender, a bat, behind the counter and doing her evening clean up before closing the doors for good. The e-mail had told me that I should look for a lioness near the back, and indeed I saw her, though somehow I believed that it would be a micro. No, it wasn't. It was a normal sized woman. I introduced myself politely and took the seat across from her after she gestured that it was alright.
"So... uhm... can I ask your name? I take it you're not the captain... are you?"
"No, I'm not Captain Nine. You can call me... well, why don't you just call me Janus, actually. I think that sounds good." Her hair was long and golden, reaching down her back and spilling over her shoulders. Her body fur was tan, and her eyes were crimson: two fiery orbs that stared at me without blinking. But I had dealt with criminals, politicians, dictators, and normal sized terrorists. Some little girl was not going to scare me. "Before I take out the captain, let's get some ground rules established. You are to keep a distance of two feet away from him at all times. With that said, if you make any gesture that I deem as hostile, I'm going to shoot you in the genitals, and leave out a back way that no one knows about, before anyone who listening on a wire can crash through that door. Do you understand."
"I'm not wearing a wire... but alright."
"Two feet, you understand that?" She augmented this comment by lifting a gloved hand, and erecting her middle and index finger at me.
"Yes, I understand. This isn't the first time my junk had been in danger. I know to follow the rules you give. That's why you contacted me, specifically, isn't it? Because I've had experience dealing with terrorists? Don't worry ma'am, I know what to do."
The lioness, Janus, opened her coat and looked into it. Speaking to the coat, she asked, "Are you ready?"
Her coat must have answered to the affirmative, because her left hand disappeared into it. A moment later, she revealed she was holding a micro, and placed him onto the table before me. Janus' left hand (I assume she is left handed) then went back under the table, most likely to hold the gun that was trained on my crotch. Funny. I've interviewed Yakuza mobsters before. When you piss them off, you have to cut off your pinky. I think they might want to try cutting off something else. No one would ever fuck up if their dick was on the chopping block.
I put on my reading glasses and leaned my head forward, taking care to remain the two feet away, but I wanted a better look at the micro who had caused so many deaths. The truth was, he was nothing interesting. About nine inches tall if I had to eyeball his height, and surprisingly muscular and strong for a micro, certainly breaking the stereotype that all micros were near anorexic. His fur was brown and his eyes little emeralds, and he only wore a little pair of army pants and a jacket, probably taken from an action figure or something. He was dressed like a homunculus mockery of a real soldier.
I gave him my greetings, and he gave me his.
"Well, let's get this started. The name, Captain Nine, where did that come from?"
"I was born in the breeding factory," the little wolf said, his bushy tail limp out behind him and his head down. "My serial number was 1-1-0-3-1-9-8-9, and the trainers called me Nine for short." He shrugged slightly.
"You were born in the breeding factory?" I asked, making a note of that. What makes a micro terrorist was a topic of hot debate. Most believed that the vast majority of them were feral. "How did you escape?"
"Janus," the wolf said slowly, cocking his head behind him to the lioness. Janus was still staring at me. Perhaps she was Nine's bodyguard, or transport, or something like that. Macros working with the micro terrorist though, that was something new. Despite the attacks and terrorism, there were at least a few vocal support groups for micro rights, those who tried to justify their horrible acts. But, at the most, it was believed that those groups provided moral support, not actual funding or manpower. Some government agents watched the support groups, but they had never offered a lead to the location of the Micro Liberation Army's headquarters. So who was this woman? And how did she play in. If Captain Nine let himself be held and handled and touched, she must have been someone he trusted. Perhaps someone high ranking. I took just a moment to memorize her features, just in case.
"Janus was working at the breeding factory at the time," Nine continued. "She... she tried to help us. Make us a little more comfortable for what little time were around for. Even tried to smuggle some of us out once or twice, but she was always caught. They just figured she wanted to eat us, so she never got in any real trouble."
"Even then, it wasn't easy. We sort and train and do everything in only a pair of panties," the lioness said, taking the conversation. "It's mostly women who train the micros. They say the lack of clothing is to prevent theft, but, no one really notices or cares if every twenty or so micros, you pop one in your mouth. There are so many, and we use every trick to breed them as fast as we can. Then one day, we had a company picnic. Fun and games and shit like that. And to top off the day, the president wheeled out a box of micros, for us all to eat. I drew Nine. I popped him in my mouth and swallowed, and went home. Then I... got him out. And he went off to join the MLA. I became an aid to them, on and off. Doing what I can."
"Such as harboring a wanted terrorist?" I ask softly.
"Terrorist..." Nine muttered. "You giants round us up in the middle of the street, and take videos of stomping us into a paste, then post it on-line as something to brag about. In the breeding factory, we are taught, day and night, that we are nothing, and that all we should ever do in life is please our masters. We are taught that we are born to serve, and nothing more. And if any free micros try to rally or something, they're gassed in the street, to send a clear message to anyone who would dare stand up to. If a micro city is erected in some far off land where we couldn't possibly cause you any harm, it's leveled by artillery, to show the frailty of what we can build. To send a clear message that no matter what, we are babies in the hand of a giant. And you have the nerve to call us the terrorists?"
I was not particularly shocked by this outburst. I've covered wars, and as I've mentioned, I've dealt with normal terrorists before. They always shout and rave about how they're not the bad guy, they're just the reluctant freedom fighters. And it grows tiring after a while. Because those ninety people who've died in the poison attack so far, and who knows how many will die before the symptoms cease, what did they ever do to this little bastard? I stare at the little micro, his little burly build which is oddly evident even beneath the mock army fatigues. As I inch closer, I have to admit, I don't think they are a doll's clothes. Perhaps the little micros have tailors. This lioness who sits before me could purchase a fair amount of cloth without suspicion, and bring it to the micros, who could probably make little pairs of pants for their entire colony.
I don't bother pushing the terrorist accusation. I don't really want to get into a shouting match with a nine inch tall wolf.
"Your technology is surprisingly well developed," I say, hoping to start a less tense subject, "considering your limited resources. And so far, the authorities have not managed to find any massive stronghold. Everyone is curious just how you are doing all this."
"Yes. Raids on micro sympathizer's houses haven't turned up much. It's as if we're not stupid enough to set up shop there," Nine said bitterly. He yelped and fell back when a hand came down before him, the blackness of the pad blocking out any light or vision. I watched as the lioness gathered the little wolf up and got up from the table, excusing herself politely and heading to the bathroom. While I waited for their return, I ordered rum in Coke from the bar, and was halfway done with it when Janus came back. She took the seat, and once more set Nine down on the table. His coat had disappeared, now only he wore his pants and, for the first time, I noticed a tiny crowbar was hanging from his belt. Psychological profiles of micros has shown something interesting: they do not like clothing. Growing up in breeding factories, they do not have a sense of shame like us normal creatures do. Perhaps he only wears pants still, as a courtesy to myself or the lioness.
I wonder what the crowbar's purpose might be, but I pass it off as either a multi-tool to aid in the wolf's day to day life, or possibly a weapon. A micro's life... though I certainly don't sympathize with their terrorist actions, I can't deny they must lead very difficult lives. Being so small, in a land so big. Being treated as slaves and toys. Having to deal with bugs that could eat them, non-sentient rats that could smother them, sentient rats that could smother them.
So I may inspect the crowbar, the micro first places it on my side of the table, then retreats back to his mistress. She actually places her hand down once more, and he hides behind it. Taking out a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass, I inspect the tool, and am fascinated to find it is indeed simply a shrunken crowbar, almost the exact definitions of what I would use, only so much smaller. The craftsmanship is impeccable, and I do wonder if micros might be useful for things other than food or toys. Or enemies, as the case is becoming. I return the tool to the table. The micro quickly retrieves it and scurries back.
"How do you make those?" I ask. "Please do not take that wrong way, I ask out of awe, not condescension. How can you craft such tools? I understand, for your tiny hands, it is no problem. But how do you make real weapons with such limited resources?"
"What choice do we have?" the micro said passively, returning the crowbar/multi-tool/weapon to his belt. "We get some help from macros, but mostly it's up to us. To scrape and save and scavenge whatever we can. We have no choice. We either fight back, or we end up dead."
"So you kill a hundred people?"
The micro was growing agitated, but a dexterous finger from the lioness, brushing down his back, served to ease his tension and anger quite a bit.
"The deaths are an unfortunate aspect," said Captain Nine. "But we don't have a choice. Have you any idea what life is like in those breeding factories? When I thought I was going to be eaten, I thought all this suffering was finally at an end. That horrible life had finally come to a close. But what good would that do? There are still thousands of micros inside those factories, thousands more kept as personal toys and slaves and snacks. And it's not until we have someplace that we can call our own, it's not until we have our own state, that any of that will change. We need a place to call our own, a place where we can defend and build families." The micro sighed, and then, for the first time, looked directly into my eyes. His tiny little emeralds were smaller than the head of a pin, and yet I could see the fury and glare in them. "You print that up, reporter. You tell anyone who wants to listen, that nothing is going to stop until we have our basic rights."
Janus gathered the wolf into her hand, and pulled her coat open. She slid him inside her breast pocket, where he would be safe against her chest and also be able to poke or signal if he needed anything. She closed her coat, and stood from the table. "The real bartender is tied up in the back. Would you do me a favor and cut him loose in a little while? The bat behind the counter is one of our agents. She'll remain here while we put some distance. If she sees you make a phone call, or try to leave, she'll shoot you, to kill." The lioness slid her revolver into her coat pocket, and headed out of the bar, leaving me with a great deal of notes, and that rather troubling warning that the wolf had given.