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From an imperceptibly narrow slot in the screen-wall, a strip of shiny black paper is printed. Its surface is covered with all sorts of barcodes and circuitry but most importantly, it has the number '100' on it. A perforated line separates one slip from the next. By the time that the printing has finished, the strip is almost as long as your arm and once you're done counting, you're left with 1250 drafts.
“<span class="mu-s">EXIT ARSENIC NODE PREMISES,</span>” you hear Packet repeat. “<span class="mu-s">IN CASE YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND – ”</span>
“We're leavin', we're leavin',” you cut off the Chronicler as you turn to depart, your tribesmen trailing after you. “It was a pleasure doin' business with you too.”
You're not quite sure how much these drafts are really worth. Karlee never went into much depth about the economy, so you can only guess. As you walk away from the Arsenic Node and its alcove, you ponder how you'll spend this currency only to have your thoughts interrupted by Jurvaz mumbling something at your side.
“You said back there that you ain't a slaver.”
“That's right,” you reply, losing the tribal dialect now that you're back in the streets of Mulhouse. “I wasn't about to sell you to that machine-man. You're important to the tribe.”
“I respect that, I really do,” he insists, “but if you ain't a slaver, what are you? What are Herrmann an' Karlee if they ain't slaves? What's my brother?”
“I don't force them to do anything.” You come to a halt and turn to face Jurvaz, who is still frowning. Some of the other tribesmen look a little pensive as well. “Blayz respects me as the leader of our tribe and the outsiders are repaying the debt that they owe us after they killed one of the Voss. It's that simple.”
“I know my brother an' he ain't the sort to respect anyone but himself, chief.” Jurvaz sounds unconvinced.
“It ain't just Blayz,” another tribesman says. You recognise him as Shuhrak, one of the better hunters of the Voss. “Have you seen the size o' Herrmann? He could kill half o' the tribe an' walk off without a scratch if he wanted to. It's what I'd do, if I were him.”
“It's yer voice,” Jurvaz continues. “There's magic in yer words, chief. We've all heard it by now. You speak an' men obey, even when they got no reason to. You force 'em to obey with yer voice. Ain't that slavery?”
Though you're keeping your voices low, your little gathering in the middle of the street is getting a few glances from bystanders.
>Make a promise. None of the Voss will ever be subjected to the power of your voice again.
>Postpone the conversation. Promise them that you will explain yourself back at the bunker.
>Put a positive spin on it. You've only used the voice on those who would harm the Voss.
>Threaten to enslave them as well. They respect power more than they care about hypocrisy.
>URGE: Silence Jurvaz's dissent. The memes will keep him from questioning you again.
