What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Ten

 

Chapter Ten: Target Acquisition

 

The studio lights were soft enough to flatter, and bright enough to expose. I watched from my workstation in Sector 4, the broadcast split across my screen alongside live sentiment metrics and engagement graphs. Comments scrolled in real time beneath the video feed, all flagged and colour-coded for my ease of understanding.

 

On screen, Dr. Eleanor Vale sat with the easy composure of someone long accustomed to public scrutiny. She wore tailored dark slacks paired with a sharp navy jacket over a simple white blouse, the lines of her outfit precise without being ostentatious. The jacket was structured but unadorned, signalling professionalism rather than vanity. On her feet were modest heels - practical, elegant, and understated. Her jewellery was minimal: small stud earrings and a fine, almost invisible necklace at her collarbone. Her hair, chestnut brown and cut to shoulder length, was styled in a smooth, professional blow-dry that framed her face without distraction. Everything about her presentation suggested discipline and clarity - nothing superfluous, nothing accidental.

 

Opposite her, Marianne Holt – the public voice of New Feminism in the UK - presented a carefully curated vision of mid-century domestic grace. She wore a pale blue dress patterned with neat white polka dots, cinched at the waist and flaring softly at the skirt in unmistakable 1950s fashion. The fabric sat primly at the knee, modest and demure, as though lifted from another era’s catalogue. Around her neck rested a single strand of pearls, matched with pearl earrings that caught the studio lights when she turned her head. Her blonde hair was styled in a sculpted, vintage wave, swept back and pinned into a polished half-up arrangement that evoked the golden age of televised homemaking. The look was immaculate - every curl set in place, every detail deliberate. Her warm smile completed the tableau, reassuring at first glance, though held just a fraction too long to feel entirely natural.

 

Between them, Fiona Bruce, the BBC moderator, smiled. “Tonight,” she began smoothly, “we’re discussing the growing influence of New Feminism and whether it represents a cultural correction or a step backward for women.”

 

She turned first to Holt. “Mrs. Holt, I’ll begin by asking you, is New Feminism restricting women’s freedom?”

 

Holt’s smile was patient. She had clearly expected such a question. “On the contrary,” she said. “We’re expanding it. For decades, women were told empowerment meant constant striving — professional competition, sexual performance, self-optimization. Many found themselves exhausted. New Feminism restores balance. It validates women who choose stability, family, and emotional clarity.”

 

The sentiment bar on my screen flickered upward. Positive engagement.

 

Fiona Bruce nodded. “Dr. Vale?”

 

Vale inclined her head slightly. “I don’t object to women choosing family,” she said calmly. “No one would object to that. What I do object to is narrowing the definition of success until other paths become socially suspect. When state-backed institutions promote one model of womanhood as healthier or more moral, then choice becomes performative.” Her voice was steady, calm and measured.

 

“With respect,” Holt replied, “we’re not narrowing anything. We’re correcting a cultural imbalance. For years, traditional roles were demeaned as regressive. Women who wanted domestic lives were mocked as lacking ambition.”

 

Vale nodded once. “That may be true in some circles,” she said. “But the answer to cultural pressure isn’t state endorsement of its opposite. It’s pluralism. Let women define themselves without ideological guidance.”

 

My fingers hovered over my keyboard as I watched the broadcast. The word pluralism triggered a soft alert on my screen. Autonomy-adjacent language was noted for reference.

 

Holt leaned forward slightly, expression sympathetic. “Pluralism sounds admirable,” she said. “But what we’ve seen is that without guidance, market forces and social media distort women’s choices. Anxiety rates skyrocketed. Loneliness increased. We’re offering structure. Not coercion.”

 

Vale’s lips curved almost imperceptibly. “Structure backed by funding, education policy, and moral rhetoric,” she said. “When young women hear repeatedly that fulfilment lies in one direction, deviation carries a cost. Even if no law enforces it.”

 

Fiona Bruce leaned forward. “Isn’t it possible, Dr. Vale, that what you call ‘cost’ is simply cultural preference evolving?”

 

There it was. The pivot. Dr. Eleanor Vale didn’t hesitate. “Cultural preference is organic,” she said. “This is coordinated. The language is identical across ministries, school curricula, media campaigns. That suggests intention. That suggests a plan.”

 

I felt my pulse tick upward. On the screen beside the broadcast, flagged keywords multiplied: coordinated, ministries, campaign.

 

Holt’s familiar smile never faltered. “Intention to support women,” she said gently. “A plan to grant women freedom. Why assume malice?”

 

Vale paused, just long enough to register the trap. “I’m not assuming malice,” she replied. “I’m questioning concentration of influence. When dissenting voices are framed as harmful rather than debated, we should all be cautious.”

 

Fiona Bruce now turned back to Holt. “Do dissenting voices face consequences, Mrs. Holt?”

 

“Not at all,” Holt said smoothly. “We’re here, aren’t we? Dr. Vale publishes freely. Appears freely. Speaks freely. I see no consequences to her outdated arguments.” A faint murmur rippled through the studio audience as Vale met Holt’s gaze.

 

“Freedom isn’t only about permission,” she said. “It’s about atmosphere. When critics such as myself are described as destabilizing, when funding dries up for alternative programs, when algorithms mysteriously deprioritize certain discussions — that shapes outcomes.”

 

My screen pulsed red at this point: Algorithmic accusation. Engagement spiking.

 

Holt’s tone softened further. “It concerns me,” she said, “that some academics frame social healing as authoritarianism. Many women report feeling happier under the new framework. Are their experiences invalid?”

 

Vale shook her head. “No,” she said. “Individual happiness is real enough. My concern is institutional uniformity. A society can promote family life without marginalizing independence. The question is: why must one rise as the other recedes?”

 

“Final thoughts,” said Fiona.

 

Holt folded her hands. “New Feminism isn’t about control,” she said. “It’s about love. It’s about compassion. It’s about healing. We’re responding to measurable distress. We’re restoring meaning to the broken women who need it the most.”

 

Vale spoke last. “Meaning imposed is not meaning discovered,” she said quietly. “A society confident in its values doesn’t need to manage narratives.”

 

In Sector 4, I stared at the engagement graph climbing sharply upward. Dr. Vale’s clips were already being isolated, trimmed into shareable fragments.

With a flurry of typing fingers, I opened Vale’s file and began to read about my first assignment at Chastity Reach. 

 

Opposition Target Profile

Prepared by: Department of Narrative Integrity

Classification: Tier One Destabilizing Voice

Subject: Dr. Eleanor Vale

Assigned: Rebecca-3

 

Basic Information

Name: Dr. Eleanor Margaret Vale

Age: 46

Occupation: Professor of Political Philosophy and Gender Studies

Institution: St. Bride’s College, Cambridge

Education: St. Andrews University

Public Role: Author, columnist, media commentator

Threat Level: High (Intellectual Legitimacy + Cross-Generational Appeal)

 

Public Persona

Dr. Vale presents as calm, articulate, and composed.

She dresses conservatively but not performatively. Speaks without anger. Rarely interrupts. Avoids personal attacks. This makes her difficult to dismiss as “emotional” or “reactionary.”

She frequently frames her opposition to New Feminism not as hostility, but as concern.

Common phrases she uses:

•    “Institutional paternalism”

•    “Soft authoritarianism”

•    “Manufactured consent”

•    “The erosion of female agency”

•    “State-coordinated moral regression”

She insists she is defending women’s right to self-determination — including the right to choose traditional roles — but argues that New Feminism removes genuine choice by narrowing acceptable paths.

This framing is dangerous because it appropriates the language of freedom.

 

Published Works

1   The Second Silence - A critique of what she calls “a new, culturally enforced domestic orthodoxy.”

2   Autonomy After Equality - Explores how structural power can reassert itself through “protective rhetoric.”

3   Daughters of Their Own Will - Focuses on younger women navigating cultural pressure toward state-endorsed femininity.

Her books are widely reviewed in literary papers and academic journals. She is respected rather than sensational.

 

Media Presence

•    Regular panel guest on evening news debates

•    Contributor to major broadsheet opinion pages

•    Appears measured, often flanked by more aggressive commentators

•    Known for dismantling arguments calmly rather than rhetorically overpowering opponents

Her tone is steady. That steadiness gives her credibility.

 

Why She Is Dangerous

Subject does not reject traditional femininity. Instead, she rejects enforced uniformity. This allows her to appeal both to liberal feminists and moderate conservatives.

Her critique is framed as preservation of pluralism rather than ideological opposition.

Emotional volatility: Low.

Scandal vulnerability: Currently minimal.

She cannot easily be painted as radical.

Which means she must be undermined indirectly.

 

Strategy for Undermining 

Stage 1: Reframing

Shift her public image from “thoughtful academic” to:

•    “Out of touch”

•    “Career dissenter”

•    “Elite intellectual disconnected from working women”

•    “Someone nostalgic for conflict”

Subtle narratives:

•    “Easy to defend autonomy from a tenured position.”

•    “She doesn’t have children — can she ever understand family life?”

•    “Interesting how all her arguments protect professional women.”

No direct attacks yet.

Just erosion.

 

Stage 2: Motive Questioning

Encourage speculation that:

•    Her book sales spike during cultural unrest.

•    She benefits financially from polarization.

•    She exaggerates threats for relevance.

Plant commentary like:

“Some academics build careers on resisting every social change.”

Doubt begins to form around sincerity.

 

Stage 3: Isolation

Highlight minor disagreements between her and other ‘feminist’ voices.

Amplify tweets where younger activists criticize her as “old-wave rigid.”

Encourage the narrative that:

•    She doesn’t represent modern women.

•    She’s clinging to outdated frameworks.

•    Even feminists are “moving beyond her.”

If she can be portrayed as generationally obsolete, her arguments lose oxygen.

 

Stage 4: Moral Suspicion (Only If Necessary)

If previous stages fail:

•    Re-examine past interviews for ambiguous phrasing.

•    Reinterpret comments as exclusionary.

•    Frame her defence of autonomy as dismissive of women who “choose harmony.”

•    Plant false narratives of immoral behaviour in her past.

 

I paused and opened the file photographs. There were three of them. The first showed Dr. Vale at a book signing in a London bookshop. The second was taken as she walked down the street from a coffee shop. And the third was a photo of how she looked when she was nineteen years old, studying at St. Andrews University in Scotland. I smiled as I saw the student photo. She was quite the cutie back then. 

 

I opened up some of the desktop tools and, remembering my three weeks of training at Chastity Reach, opened the menus to assign electronic and foot surveillance on Dr. Vale. I had four escalating levels of surveillance in each category and the authority to dictate what was going to happen to her over the coming months. I scrolled down to Level 3 electronic surveillance and brought up the sub-screen: 

 

Level 3 – Device / Network Intrusion

Primary Function: Direct access to subject’s digital life.

Capabilities:

                        Remote access to personal devices (phones, laptops, tablets).

                        Can read messages, emails, and monitor communications in real time.

                        Can geo-locate the subject at all times, track call logs, app usage, and online behaviour.

Experience for Subject: Generally unaware, though minor anomalies (slow device response, strange notifications) may appear.

 

With a single click of my mouse, Dr. Vale was now on the Steel World’s radar. I felt a giddy rush to my head as I realised I would now be looking into her most private thoughts and movements going forwards. Soon, I would know everything there was to know about Dr. Eleanor Margaret Vale. For a moment I almost felt guilty, but then I reminded myself she was our enemy. 

 

Their enemy.

 

No, our enemy.

 

I glanced around, hoping that my facial expression hadn’t given away my thoughts, but, no, no one was looking at me. I shut down the sub screen and opened up the one for ‘foot’ surveillance. Level 2, perhaps… no need to raise the bar too high to begin with. 

 

Level 2 – Casual Interaction / Informal Inquiry

Primary Function: Limited engagement to gather additional information.

Capabilities:

                        Agents pose as ordinary passers-by, baristas, or event staff.

                        Able to strike up small talk, ask innocuous questions, or overhear conversations.

                        Can subtly note habits, mood, and preferences beyond visual observation.

Experience for Subject: Slight chance of noticing friendly strangers; unlikely to suspect surveillance.

 

Across the room I saw Jessica-6 studiously staring into her own computer screen. I wondered, curiously, who she may have had assigned to her. Another subversive – another threat to the Steel Worlds. I would probably find out in our dormitory tonight. 

 

I clicked with the mouse again and saw the foot surveillance authorised, or, rather, pushed up the chain of command to my manager, Serena Veyra to confirm. As soon as I did so, she must have heard a notification beep through her earpiece, as I saw her look up from where she was standing close by, and look directly at me. Serena was a sharp, commanding presence on the office floor. She had short dark hair streaked with silver, piercing grey eyes, and typically wore tailored suits with minimal jewellery, giving out a professional but intimidating image. I watched as she touched her ear piece, obviously heard something, and then tapped her ear piece once by way of reply. Suddenly an ‘approved’ text message appeared on my screen. 

 

Seconds later, details of the surveillance links began to confirm, and details of the ‘on foot’ teams appeared in my inbox. I had a lot of reading ahead of me. 

 

-------------------------------

 

The alert chimed at 14:00 precisely.

 

All screens in Sector 4 froze mid-sentence. The draft document I was working on — half-finished, carefully calibrated to suggest that Dr. Vale was “increasingly isolated from everyday women” — vanished behind a grey overlay. A message in bold capitals appeared on my screen instead.

 

COMMUNAL ALIGNMENT SESSION — MANDATORY

 

No one sighed. No one spoke. Chairs simply slid back in near-perfect unison.

 

We all moved in rows silently down the corridor toward Assembly Hall C, heels striking the floor in soft, synchronized taps. I kept my gaze forward, aware of cameras mounted at each junction, lenses glinting like patient eyes. The assembly hall was already half full when I entered.

 

Sector after sector of women in identical grey dresses, identical short haircuts, identical barcodes laser burned onto their left wrists filled the tiered seating without instruction, five to a row. I sat down, two seats to Jessica-6's left, while Anna-2 sat somewhere behind.

 

At the front of the hall a massive screen flickered to life. The Steel Worlds insignia filled it first — polished metal arcs intersecting over a globe. Beneath it, the words:

 

UNITY IS SURVIVAL

 

A woman from Cultural Reinforcement stepped forward to the podium.

 

“Thank you all for coming. Today,” she said evenly, “we confront destabilization.”

 

The lights dimmed.

 

The screen shifted.

 

And then Karl Magnus appeared.

 

The footage was grainy, overexposed in places. His hair longer than I remembered, and his face thinner. He stood at a podium I didn’t recognize, shouting — the audio distorted just enough to make his voice rasp and crack. It was a series of edited clips of the former Ubar, apparently ranting in his delusional state, specks of spittle carefully choreographed as he made pronouncement after pronouncement. 

 

“Unity is a lie manufactured by cowards who fear strong nations.”

 

“Let it fracture. Let it burn if it must. Better ashes than submission.”

 

“They call it harmony. I call it domestication.”

 

“Women were never meant to kneel to transatlantic dynasties.”

 

“The so-called New Feminism is nothing but velvet-wrapped obedience.”

 

“We will not be ruled by foreign families. Death to the Fricks!”

 

“You have been tranquilized with slogans.”

 

“Stability is the word tyrants use when they are afraid.”

 

“The Steel Worlds Council is weak. Weak leaders deserve to fall.”

 

Other clips were more insidious — phrases clearly spliced together:

 

“Disrupt… dismantle… disobey…”

 

“Withdraw your compliance.”

 

“Refuse their structure.”

 

“The Fricks fear men who remember how to lead.”

 

One especially inflammatory segment showed him leaning forward, finger stabbing toward the lens, the audio sharpened and distorted:

 

“You think they protect you? They are bleeding you dry.”

 

Immediately the image cut to stock footage of economic downturns, shuttered factories, crowded hospitals — all overlaid with his name in red.

 

In another manipulated clip, the voice seemed lower, rougher than usual — perhaps artificially altered:

 

“If chaos is the price of freedom, then chaos is long overdue!”

 

And the most damning line — likely never spoken in that form at all — lingered longest on the screen:

 

“I would rather see the Steel Worlds collapse than watch them submit to American control. Burn them! BURN THEM ALL!”

 

The editing ensured there were no pauses, no nuance, no policy arguments. Only fury. Only defiance. Only treachery.

 

Each phrase was engineered to suggest recklessness, nationalism bordering on extremism, and personal ambition disguised as principle. By the time the montage ended, the Karl Magnus on the screen bore little resemblance to a political dissenter. He was rendered instead as a caricature: volatile, regressive, hungry for power — a convenient architect of every crisis the Council of Ubars needed explained away.

 

The edits were tight. Relentless. No context. No pauses long enough for coherence. Across the hall, a murmur began to build.

 

“Traitor,” someone whispered.

 

The footage shifted again — Magnus pacing, gesturing wildly. Subtitles appeared beneath him in bold red:

 

INSURGENT RHETORIC

CALLS FOR FRACTURE

THREAT TO GLOBAL STABILITY

 

A pulse began to hammer in my throat, for I remembered him differently. He had been measured, and his speech controlled and nuanced. His speeches had been dense but deliberate. Whenever he spoke, my father had listened with something like cautious admiration. Not worship. Not fanaticism. But belief that the Steel Worlds movement could reform society without surrendering it to foreign dynasties.

 

Then came the purges. 

 

The American families had consolidated control of the Council. Magnus had disappeared from London. Weeks later, he re-emerged like this on screen only, presented by his enemies — furious, fragmented, labelled unstable.

 

On the screen, he shouted something about “sovereignty” before the audio warped into static.

 

The sound in the hall grew louder as some of the women hissed. Some shouted. A few stood halfway, fists clenched at their sides. The energy felt rehearsed and spontaneous at once.

 

“Traitor!” a voice cried.

 

Another clip rolled: Magnus accusing the Council of silencing dissent. The footage cut mid-sentence to a freeze-frame of his mouth open, eyes wide — a portrait of mania.

 

DANGEROUS INSTABILITY

 

The officer raised her voice. “What do we call those who threaten unity?”

 

The hall responded, ragged at first, then stronger:

 

“Destabilizers!”

 

“What do destabilizers create?”

 

“Chaos!”

 

“What does chaos destroy?”

 

“Harmony!”

 

The rhythm took over. Call and response. My hands were trembling as I forced them into helpless fists.

 

Magnus was shown again, this time overlaid with footage of protests — fires in the background, crowds running. It wasn’t clear whether the images were connected. They didn’t need to be. The association was enough.

 

The officer’s tone sharpened.

 

“He would fracture the Steel Worlds,” she said. “He would return women to uncertainty. To competition. To fear.”

 

The screen showed Magnus pointing toward the camera.

 

I remembered my father saying, once, that Magnus believed in “regional integrity.” That he objected to transatlantic consolidation, or global empires. He had once said, “Treve has always stood alone,” that it wasn’t treason to argue about governance. But here, in the dim hall, under the collective heat of anger, doubt felt dangerous.

 

I felt a throbbing in the left side of my head as more and more of the identically dressed women rose to their feet, clenched their fists, and shouted abuse at the screen image of Karl Magnus. 

 

Without even thinking, I shouted, “Traitor!” louder than the others.

 

Around me the chant swelled again.

 

“Protect unity!”

 

“Reject chaos!”

 

“Protect unity!”

 

“Reject chaos!”

 

The officer gestured toward the screen.

 

“Release your anger,” she instructed. “Do not let his treason stand!”

 

A woman two rows down was crying as she screamed and raged at the image of Karl Magnus. 

 

And then the presentation ended as abruptly as it had begun. Lights rose slowly, and the screen returned to the Steel Worlds insignia.

 

The officer’s voice softened. “Emotional clarity restores strength,” she said. “Return to your work assignments. Strength Through Purity!”

 

“Purity Through Faith!” we all shouted back. 

 

Around me, the various women rose almost in unison, and, as they did so, I realized my nails had left crescents in my palms. I forced myself to stand with the others. As we all filed back toward Sector 4, Jessica-6 leaned in close to me, voice barely audible.

 

“He looks unhinged,” she whispered.

 

I hesitated for perhaps half a heartbeat too long. “Yes,” I said carefully. “He does.”