Coco, played marvelously by Coco Shi, comes from the affluent bars and nightclubs of Beijing, where her life is abruptly turned upside down upon learning her boyfriend has been pursuing other women. Taking a cue from her friend Ivy (Miyawaki Yan), Coco decides to head for mainland Japan in a misguided attempt to revel in the wonder that is the Christmas Holiday. Unbeknownst to the starry-eyed heroine created by Shi, who has spent the majority of her short adult live in the veritable lap of luxury, the character of Ivy, who is at once Coco’s best friend and only contact in Japan, has had to undertake a more realistic life revolving around work and bills. Expecting to be housed in the finer lodgings she has become accustomed to frequenting in Beijing, Coco is left stupefied when Ivy leaves her in the capable though dirty hands of Masanobu (Ogawa Takeru), whose family runs a small hostel called “New World”. Where Ivy is able to communicate with both Coco and Masa in both Chinese and Japanese, respectively, the would-be lovers are unable to communicate with one another. Language barriers ensue, all of which are eventually triumphed by the power of love. There are some side-stories involving young, laughable gangsters, illicit debts, and kidnapping, though the bulk of the story centers on Masa and Coco realizing that love surpasses any and all conceptions of what is appropriate, whether those notions come in the form of socio-economic differences, emotions lost in translation, or the pressure to succumb to the ideals impressed upon us by our families and peers. It is a simple moral: love triumphs over all, though it is one that seems doomed to be lost among the hustle and bustle of modern living.

The major detraction of the film is the combined failure of the director to properly subtitle the dialogue while not making clear location changes. Ironically, much of the dialogue is lost to a miserable translation, one of the main themes of the film itself. Compounding this oversight is the fact that the story jumps back and forth between Beijing and Osaka with little or often delayed indications. For anyone that has traveled to either country, China and Japan are noticeably different from one another in appearance. However the reality is that many Westerners have only been to one, if either of these far-East countries, and so keeping track of where the story moves is at times difficult.

Beyond the simple errors in the dialogue translations, the film does a fine job of updating the classic love story. It’s a treat watching Takeru play the part of the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, while Shi’s portrayal of the rich girl thrust into the world of the proletariat is also executed perfectly. By the end of “New World” the child-like, blossoming love between Coco and Masa is hard not to root for. The audience develops a sincere desire for the forlorn lovers to work out their economic and cultural differences in favor of the one thing every person, regardless of nationality or social-standing, is looking for, whether they know it or not: true love. The only thing worth than not finding it, is losing it.

It’s become common practice for directors and writers of western horror/suspense genres to rely merely on blood and guts to stimulate anxiety in their audiences, sacrificing clever plot lines for naked virgins. The 2004 Japanese offering “”Late Bloomer”" (Tidepoint Pictures/Bone House Asia), from director Go Shibata, employs substance rather than cheap thrills as the primary story-telling device, leaving the viewer to be consumed by several conflicting emotions. This is a logical direction for the horror genre to take, as those of us living in the 21st century have seen more than enough graphic ultra-violence. This is not to say “”Osoi Hito”", as the film is known in Japan, is tame, on the contrary, the film’s manipulation of the human emotional spectrum is at once terrifying and sympathetic, leaving the audience to ponder social norms in relation to the nature of good and evil.

Filmed in black and white, “”Late Bloomer”" tells the story of a cerebral palsy patient, Masakiyo Sumida (portrayed by the actor of the same name), falling victim to the same demons afflicting any person living in the modern world. What makes the film unique, is that where society teaches the individual to feel compassion and sympathy for those less-fortunate souls living in our midst, Shibata-san has goes out of his way in turning the disabled protagonist into what could most easily be described as a homicidal asshole. The film begins by painting a picture of  Sumida’s daily life: his friends, his hobbies, the challenges of life for a CP patient, introducing the other characters as ultra-empathetic, going out of their way to include Sumida as much as possible. Still, the cute girl is bound to fall for the punk-rock guy, leaving the disabled Sumida alone with his demons, his muted vengeance free to quietly boil over. By the end of the film, it’s hard to sympathize with a character such as Sumida, regardless of any physical or psychological detriments. To the contrary, those characters falling victim to his whimsical depravities are much more easily digested; they’re not bad people. They don’t bully Sumida, they don’t take advantage of him – they seem only to want to make him feel normal. Still, the blood-lust cannot be staved, and arbitrary murders ensue. All of this triggers a very conflicted emotional response, as we are taught from birth to exude compassion when in the presence of those who are less fortunate, if not outright sympathy. “Late Bloomer” reverses this trend in demonizing the CP-stricken leading man, while demanding commiseration for the beautiful supporting characters. The resulting condition is one of self-loathing; a sensation of guilt over rooting against a disabled person. Clever.

Apart from the actual substance of the film, the performance delivered by Masakiyo Sumida is top-shelf. An actual cerebral palsy patient, Masakiyo works with the Center for Persons with Disabilities in the Kansai region of Japan, which is aimed at fighting ongoing discrimination of disabled peoples. However, through pouring beer down his face and wallowing in filth while watching porn, Masakiyo convincingly sells the depravity of his character with unflinching abandon. It’s great – this villain is of a new persuasion. The scenes depicting Sumida training his atrophied muscles to perform a stabbing motion are so completely unsettling it’s truthfully hard to sit through. Go Shibata’s use of black and white in conjunction with documentary-style film-making is very effective in creating a thoroughly uncomfortable vibe. If you have any interest in the suspense or horror genres, not to mention Japanese cinema as a whole, definitely take the time to watch “Late Bloomer”, available through Tidepoint Pictures and Bone House Asia.

The governments of man existed now only as a memory; any semblance of social order left following the Last War had been replaced by chaos and famine. Few of the survivors had been able to cope with the thorough devastation that had become civilization, as many of them had been so reliant on the routine of the system that the notion of simple survival was incomprehensible to them. Most fell victim to the plague relatively quickly; those that did not succumb so quickly were transferred into fodder for the more adept members of society:  marauding bands of murderers, thieves, and rapists. Those that did join the roving gangs that controlled much of the modern landscape but had managed to survive as lone wolfs either devolved into cannibalism and eventually died from consuming infected meat, while others simple wandered aimlessly through the ethereal plain.

And then there were rumors…rumors of survivors that had not spiraled into the dark abyss that had consumed humanity. While nice society had turned a blind-eye to the plight of the addicts during the heyday of modernity, an enzyme resistant to the plague had cultivated itself within the bodies of these once unfortunate souls. Though certainly not a cure, something in the way of an immunity had developed in the last of the world’s junkies, leaving this single subculture to restart civilization. These were the ones without any desire for the straight-life, who had given up on the routine and systematic nature of life in the real world. Who knew what it meant to be sick, and had spent lifetimes adapting to the hunt…the hunt for survival. The hunt for wellness, for the sake of functionality. Who knew what it meant to live in the shadow of the rest of the world, fighting for every scrap, every fix, no matter what the cost. These were to be the heroes of the apocalypse, forgotten junkies waking up to find a world they loathed finally destroyed. These were the Addictizens, the Strange Survivors.

II

                Nevik Rush lifted his head from a slumber that felt like an eternity. Peering through the crack in the boarded up window of his squat, he could see that the desolation of the world had not disappeared overnight. Rather, a Straight slowly dragged itself up the street, emptiness glowing from its’ eyes. The blond hair that had once been so perfectly groomed now looked dirty against the tattered and bloody blouse hanging off the body. This was not a viral, waiting for the last stages of the disease to extinguish her life, but a non-adept – a child of the Last War, unable to reconcile the many horrors that had come to define the world in the years following zero-day.

“Help…somebody please help. My husband, my daughter…they’re killing us all…” the girl’s shallow voice was drowned out by the roar of pursuing engines. Nevik watched as the gang of death rovers surrounded her, the taunts and jeers of the hungry men and women audible over the hushed-rumbling of the solar-powered speederbikes and all-terrain vehicles that had become the last modes of transport after society’s collapse.

“Hey girl, don’t run. We’re here for you now, ain’t that right boys? You gonna be just right with us.” The assumed leader of the pack dismounted his speederbike as he looked the girl up and down. Dressed in an ensemble outfit comprised of various leathers and the skins of fallen meals, the man was more than gruff. The stench emanating from the gang was palpable, causing Nevik to cover his nose and mouth as the stench penetrated the deserted motel he had made home. The large bowie knife attached to the hip of the leader appeared larger than the girl as it was unsheathed, eliciting tears of fear as it flashed in her eyes. “Come on now, girl, don’t you be ‘fraid now…we don’t want you…at least not to eat.”

The howling laughter from the pack of rovers that followed the leader’s revelation was broken by the sound of more vehicles approaching, dragging the beaten and abused bodies of the girl’s family behind them. “We got ‘em, Ruiny, where do you want ‘em?” The obvious second-in-command sat on his vehicle waiting the leader’s command.

Equally as degenerate, the stench seemed to grow, and Nevik had to use what little self-control he had to prevent himself from vomiting. It was early in the day, and he had not yet fed, and so his body was weak with hunger. He looked around the burned-out room that he had lived in for the previous couple of weeks; no evidence of life remained, but for the few empty pill bottles and cook spoons that littered the floor. Certainly there was no sign of Shayva, his running mate and wife. This worried him, as they had survived as long as they had as a team, and the prospect of confronting this sick old world on his own was more than he could fathom.

The growing excitement of the rovers forced Nevik to turn back to the hideous display taking place on the abandoned street just outside his makeshift home. Quietly, he inched closer to the window. Although this kind of savage debauchery had turned him off since before the Last War, he could not help but watch, as he hoped the sight of such brutality might stave off the nausea rapidly growing in his belly.

The rovers had formed a circle around the girl and their leader, hooting and hollering as the gruff man came closer to perpetrating unspeakable acts of deviance against the girl. “See there?” The leader motioned to the mangled bodies of the girl’s family, “we got all the food we can eat, at least for a few days. I tell you what we don’t have nearly enough of, good ol’ fashioned pussy, and I’m betting you got some top-shelf snatch under them rags.” The leader ripped at the girl’s clothes as he spoke, tearing her tattered garment off with disdain, leaving her standing in the circle with nothing more than worn shoes, thin panties, and a silver cross on a silver chain to shield her from the drooling ogles  of the pack. “So then,” the leader took a step back from the girl, admiring her body as he did, “I suppose the choice is yours – you can join us, serving the boys…”

A female voice erupted from the rovers, interrupting the leader, “don’t forget us girls!” Mocking laughter erupted once more from the circle of speederbikes.

“And girls – Molly I would never forget you – serving our desires as we see fit…or you can join that mess you used to call a family, serving us in totally different kind of way.” The leader pointed the long, sharp blade of his knife at the corpses still attached to the ATV. “Now, what’ll it be?” Silence overtook the gangly group as they waited in pseudo-anticipation for the girl’s response.

“I can’t…I can’t. I’ve only been with Robert…and he’s dead.” The girl clutched the tiny cross as she spoke. “Our father, who art in heaven…”

“Oh stop with that shit already. What has he ever done for you?” The leader slid his knife between the cross and the girl’s white skin, flinging the trinket to the ground, slightly cutting her in the process. The girl fell to the ground, clutching her wound. The sight of the red blood against her white skin caused another surge of excitement to swell through the pack as the prospect of fresh meat became too much to conceal.

The girl whimpered as she sat on her knees, “I can’t…I can’t…I can’t…”

The leader grabbed the girl by her dirty blonde hair and pulled to her feet; the pack of death rovers cheered in approval. “You can,” the leader squeezed the girl’s body as he spoke, “and you will.” He tossed the dazed girl to the nearest rovers, “now, hold her”. The rovers held the girl over one of the speederbikes, fondling her body as they did. The leader took his place behind and began to unleash the ultraviolence on her. The girl did not cry, as she had already died inside long ago. The leader finished, and another rover took his place, then another, and another.

The graphic scene unfolding outside his boarded-up window became too much to endure, as Nevik began to feel the nausea overpower him. As quietly as possible, he stood on his shaky legs and made his way into the small bathroom of the motel room. Crumpled in the corner, next to the toilet, was Shayva. Nevik whispered to his only friend, “We’ve got to go, Shay, now. There’s a pack of death rovers out there doing in a family of three.” Shayva’s sedated eyelids fluttered as she struggled to focus on the only person she could trust. “There’s not nearly enough for all of them, so they’ll be coming through here any minute.” Nevik dry heaved as quietly as he could. “Come on, let’s go”.

Shayva did not move, but only stared at her partner. “Not until I fix; I’m not going anywhere till I fix.”

Wiping the stomach bile from his chin, Nevik tried to reason with her. “If we don’t go now, we’ll end up eaten, or worse. Let’s do it.”

Shayva’s voice switched to scathing, and she was yelling at him, as she usually did when she felt the sickness coming on. “Fuck you Nev, I know you’re holding, feed me now or we’re not going anywhere.”

“Damn it Shay, keep your voice down, they’ll hear you, and then we’re through.” Nevik hurried back to his travelpack and began searching for the last Proponinol injections he had saved. He had two, and had planned on rationing them over the course of the next few days, but this clearly would not be the case; his junkie wife had breached the ration schedule and used everything she had the night before. Returning to the bathroom, Nevik pressed one of the injectors against Shayva’s shoulder without saying a word, administering a 24-hour release shot, then did the same to himself. “There. Are you happy? Now we have none. So can we please get the hell out of here before we end up like them?” Nevik motioned to the window, though the scene taking place outside was not visible from the bathroom.

The Proponinol shot was fast-acting, and as her pupils took on the form on tiny pinpoints, Shayva smiled, futilely trying to lift herself from where she sat on the dirty floor, next to the vomitus toilet. “Oh yeah, baby, I’m ready now.” Shayva put her hand on Nevik’s crotch as he helped to steady her weak legs. “I’m ready for a piece of this.”

“Not now, Shay, I’m telling you, they’re right outside.” Nevik swatted her hand away and returned to the bedroom to gather their few belongings.

Shayva followed him, clumsily balancing herself on the walls of the motel room. “What are you talking about, baby? There’s no one here but us.”

Frustration took over Nevik’s sense of rationality, as he angrily hoisted the travelpack onto his shoulders, motioning to the boarded-up window as he spoke. “Outside, Shay, they’re outside.”

As he added a dab of water to a soiled cook-spoon, preparing to pour the narcotic resin into his nasal cavity, Shayva fumbled her way to the window. “I don’t see nothing…are you fucking high, or what?”

Nevik snorted the narcotic solution up his nose, rolling his head back as he did. “They’re out there, Shay, I just watched them commit ultraviolence on a family of three.” Sure that he had collected any usable paraphernalia left over by himself or earlier inhabitants, he moved to the bathroom. The narcotic lust of the propopinol shot had begun to take over his conscious self, and he felt his stomach convulse as it prepared to evacuate what little sustenance he had consumed during the last few days. Nevik allowed his stoned body to plop onto the dirty seat of the toilet, then threw-up on the floor of the dirty bathroom.  “Can we please just get the fuck out of here, please?” Nevik stood and opened the cramped window.

From the other room of the motel, he could hear Shayva’s opiate-laden voice as she tried to make out the awful carnage taking place on the streets. “Yeah, baby, we can go, let me just take a quick look.” She had always had a morbid curiosity that most junkies could have cared less about. “Oh Nev, you gotta see this, look what they’re doing to that girl, or what’s left of her. It’s like when…” The loud crash of the boards covering the window splintering into pieces as Shayva tried to balance herself against them yanked Nevik out of his stupor.  Light from the outside world filled the room, as the realization of what she’d done enveloped her, causing her to freeze, her body framed within the destroyed window. The rovers stopped what they were doing, covered in blood and fluid. The lifeless corpse of the girl twitched on the street as the gang’s cooks partitioned the body into fillets.

Without thinking, Nevik swooped into the bedroom, grabbing his wife by the arm. “Now, Shay, now. We have to go.”

The crashing of the boards attracted the attention of a rover relegated to the outskirts of the carnivorous huddle, who, upon registering the presence of two more fresh cuts, howled in anticipation of the meal to come. The piercing sound of the famished man’s voice caused Nevik and Shayva to freeze, like deer in the headlights. The rest of the pack stopped ravaging the mangled corpses in response to the omega’s screech, all eyes locking on the pair of God’s special creatures.

As if waking from a dream, Nevik’s dulled senses seemed to come back to life, directing him to smash the small window in the dirty bathroom. “We have to get the fuck out of here.” Using a blood-stained towel left on the floor by previous occupants wrapped around his arm, Nevik broke through the weak glass, the cold air of the forgotten world blowing onto his face.

Shayva still stood motionless, watching as the rovers raced towards the motel room, scrambling and fighting with one another over first dibs. “Nevik…I didn’t mean to yell…” Her voice was hushed and full of terror, but her body would not allow her to move, leaving her as a statue to be ripped apart by the approaching band of misfit degenerates.

Nevik climbed through the shattered window to the waiting speederbike outside. After quickly securing his pack in the cargo store, he reached into the bathroom to pull his wife through. “Give me your hand, Shay.” Using his other hand, he switched on the ignition of the bike, revving the throttle.

As Shayva was half-way out of the window, the voice of the first rover boomed through the motel. Standing alone in the motel room, the rover smiled, running his finger down the long blade of his knife. “Mmmm…junkie meat…my favorite.”

The thought of losing his wife and only friend to the sodomites that had infected most of the world forced Nevik to act without thinking, pulling Shay through the window, cutting her hip on a shard of broken glass as he did so.

Sensing the spilt blood, the leader shouted, “where do you think you’re going!” then stormed through the room towards the couple, loosing a horrifying howl.

Nevik laid his wife on the speeder, retrieving a Glock 22 .40 caliber handgun from under the steering column in the same motion. Without hesitation, he turned and fired, connecting with the left eye of the rover, who had made it as far as the window. The filthy man’s body crumpled to the floor of the dirty bathroom, all life removed from his being. A pool of blood formed around the man’s head as other rovers rushed into the bathroom, still fighting after their fleeting prize. None took notice of their deceased leader, nor did Nevik as he raced away from the motel on the speederbike, his bleeding wife clinging to the meager contours of his heroin-chic physique.

III

                “Nev, I’m really bleeding…I’m losing my high…gonna be sick…” Shayva’s weak voice slowly floated from the back of the speederbike to the front as she fought to stay conscious.

“I know, Shay, I know. We’ll be there soon, just hang on.” The excitement at the motel had caused Nevik to act more rigorously than he would have chosen to, and the propopinol fix he had taken hours earlier, though intended to last for 24-hours, had dissipated for the moment. Anger welled up inside him as he thought of his wife using the last of her stash without cause. “Gluttonous whore” he thought to himself. As the rage built within him, Nevik realized that dwelling on the current shortage of medicine only worsened his symptoms. It was no secret he would have done the same thing had he not already been well.  He focused what little will-power he had on the abandoned street before him. Snow flashed past as he and Shayva rode into the early morning light.

The Sacred Heart retirement center had clearly been among the first facilities to become over run during the first days following the Last War. Crashed vehicles and broken bodies littered the parking area; hardly a single window of the towering building had been left unbroken as the chaos of society crashing had burned through the hospital.

Nevik pulled the speeder into the front of the building, killing the vehicle’s engine as the silence of the massive crime scene enveloped he and his wife. “Can you walk, baby? We have to get inside…we’re way too exposed out here.”

Shayva nodded her headed as she hobbled off the speederbike. “I’m good, Nev. Let’s just find something before it’s too late.”

Nevik helped steady his wife, leaning her against the wall of the foyer hospital’s lobby before quickly returning to the vehicle. Opening the cargo store on the rear of the bike, he surveyed his arsenal: less than 50 rounds of ammunition for the handgun, a ginzu kitchen knife, and a wrench. Fortunately, the ginzu was sharp – Nevik had stolen it from a door-to-door salesman just days before the leaders of man had simultaneously blasted each other with every weapon at their collective disposal – all agents chemical, biological, and nuclear. Considering the close-quarters nature of the hospital, he opted for the knife, sheathing it in the fine leather case the salesman had been so proud of, fastening it to his hip.

When he returned, Nevik found his wife slumped against the wall of the lobby. She had not lost consciousness; the drugs had kept her mind sedate enough not to panic, her addiction had kept her from passing out, though it wouldn’t be long before body took over mind. Seeing his wife was content for the moment, he proceeded to inspect the blinding white lobby of the hospital. The distinct sensation of sanitation exuded from the walls was unlike any Nevik had felt sense adolescence. Like a street-dog wearily in search of his next shelter, he crept pass furniture unused for months, before skulking to the front of the room without detecting any signs of life, then reaching through the clear-plastic partition of the receptionist’s booth to press the button concealed below the desk, opening the electronically locked door leading to the rest of the hospital. In his twenty-sixth year, he had been an addictizen for the majority of his adult life, surviving off government-sponsored addiction-sustenance programs to maintain wellness. He had broken into hospitals like these several times in the years leading up to the Last War.

“Here we go, doll – just like that.” Nevik smiled as he held the door open for his wife.

Shayva lifted herself against the lobby wall, then limped towards the belly of the hospital. “You still got it, lover.” A small trickle of blood followed her.

“First things, first – we gotta get you stitched up; you’re losing too much blood.”

“Fuck my blood, Nevik, I’m losing my dose; I’m getting sick. Now help me find the shit.” Shayva leaned against her husband, straining to keep her balance.

“Lemme just stop the bleeding…I can’t lose you Shay.” Nevik struggled to keep her afoot as Shayva’s body began to shut down.

“You’re gonna lose shit” were the last words Nevik could decipher as his wife’s body went limp, slipping into unconsciousness. He placed his head against her neck, feeling the shallow beat of her pulse against his cheek – she was not dead.

“Wait here, baby. I’m gonna fix you up.” Nevik sat Shayva down against the wall as the lobby door shut behind them, locking the outside world out.  Before venturing into the depths of the hospital, he momentarily admired his wife’s beauty. Though she had been an addictizen for as long as he had known her, Shayva had retained much of the beauty Nevik had lost in his youth. Like his, her brown hair had become frizzled and strained from being exposed to the elements on a regular basis, though it held a certain sheen that one could not buy even at the most affluent salons of the pre-war era. Looking up and down her famished frame, Nevik took note of the fine curves of his wife’s body. The blood oozing from her hip reminded him of the task at hand, and he disappeared amid the flickering lights of the hospital’s maze of corridors.

IV

                Shayva’s eyelids fluttered in the synthetic neon light dripping from the ceiling, covering the whole of the examination room. She tried to sit up, but found herself restrained, bound to a gurney in the center of the white room. As her eyes focused, the room resolved, and she became aware of the operating tray positioned next to her. Bloody instruments were strewn across it, while wadded up pieces of soiled gauze littered the floor.

“Don’t worry, love, the worst of it’s over.” The professionally calm voice was unfamiliar to Shayva, as was the face of the man it belonged to. The spectacles and refined speech patterns of the man implied he had been a physician of some kind. “You lost a lot of blood; that cut was deep. I had to act quickly…I did what I had to.”

Looking down, Shayva noticed the pristine bandaging job that had been performed on her hip. She tried to touch the freshly cleaned wound, but the restraints prevented her from doing do. The sweat forming all over her body from not medicating could not be ignored. All she could think of was getting fixed, and this man was preventing that. Shayva fought to muster what little strength she still possessed, forcing her voice to take on an authoritative tone of its’ own. “What is this? Why am I tied up? Where’s Nevik…who the hell are you?”  The list of questions betrayed her will, revealing her fear for the entire world to witness.

“My name is Dr. Watts Anaheim; I cleaned and sutured your wound before dressing it; I used to work here. You’ve been restrained for your own good, child. Your kind is known for picking at wounds, and any infection would surely spell the end for you.” The doctor’s voice remained calm, smooth, though it took on an unsettling quality Shayva had not initially recognized. “I just want to keep you here under my supervision before discharging and sending you home.”

“Look, doc, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention or not, but the world’s gone to shit – there’s no home to go home to anymore…for any of us.” Shayva continued to wrestle with the restraints as she spoke. “Now undo these fucking things and release me. Where the hell is Nevik? He better not have left me here with your spooky ass.”

Dr. Anaheim placed his hand on Shayva’s arm as it fought to free itself. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, love. See, I am aware that the world has been cleansed, and it is up to me and those like me to rebuild it,” he squeezed her small arms, “as we see fit.”

“You sick motherfucker…let her go.” Nevik’s weakened voice came from behind the gurney, followed by a blood-splattered cough.

“Ahhhh…I see Romeo has come back to us.” Dr. Anaheim released Shayva, then pulled Nevik into the center of the room where his wife could see him. “He’s right here, love. Right as rain.” The doctor tossed Nevik’s body to the floor. “He’s no good to me dead or permanently injured, nor are you. The rovers will pay top-trade for unspoiled meat,” Dr. Anaheim kicked Nevik in the gut, “and you, lovely girl, you will help me to bring a family into this world.”

“Nev, do something.” Shayva’s voice was filled with tears as the sick doctor’s end-game became apparent. Nevik did not respond to his wife’s pleas.

“Do something? What…With this?” The doctor brandished the ginzu in Shayva’s face. “The only thing he’s going to do is watch as we herald the new generation.” He slid the blade between the buttons of Shayva’s dirty shirt, slicing it in half, exposing her breasts. “Mmmmm…just as I hoped – you’ve never given birth, have you, child?” The doctor rubbed her would-be womb as he spoke, slipping his other hand into her loose-fitting pants, letting his fingers explore every crevice of her body.

Shayva thrashed on the gurney, but to no avail. She squeezed her eyes tightly together, frantically trying to come up with some way out, but she could not think; the withdrawals from not having medicated in over a day blocked her thought patterns. “Stop, stop, stop…I can’t do this, not like this; I’m sick, I need my medicine.” Even in the face of terrible rape, all she could think about was getting high.

“Your medicine? You junkies and your justifications – you’re an addict, sweet child, nothing more, nothing less.” Anaheim continued to fondle Shayva’s body, drooling on her neck as spoke.

“Yes, you’re right, and I can’t perform while I’m sick. You should know that; you’re a doctor.”

The rationale behind her logic was undeniable, and the sick doctor paused in his indiscretions. “You know what? You’re right. Lucky for you, I have what you need right here, and there’s not a lot going around.” He removed a bottle from his lab coat containing a handful of pills, shaking them in his victim’s face as he smiled calmly. “80mg oxycontin – this stuff was like gold even before the wars; I used to make a pretty penny supplementing my income by selling the shit to your kind. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d bet you’d fuck me for a single hit if I was offering; no force necessary.” Watts Anaheim stared at Shayva, content in the knowledge that his reasoning was as sound as hers.

Shayva’s eyes moved from the sick, twisted smile of the doctor to the pill bottle, and she instantly knew she’d do whatever it took to get it from him. “So fix me up and let’s do this. I was getting tired of him anyway.” She let her eyes indicate her husband as she watched Anaheim prepare a solution of water and oxycodone, preparing the entire pill for injection. “Looks like you’re better suited to take care of me than he ever was.” Her eyes briefly moved from the syringe to her husband who lay crumpled on the floor, motionless. The groans emanating from Nevik served as an eerie soundtrack to the narcotic administration taking place around him.

The first rush of the opiate derivative being sucked up by her brain caused a smile to instinctively flash across Shayva’s face, and the sweat forming all over her body seemed to instantly evaporate. “That’s good…I’m ready.” With every ounce of energy she could command, she lifted her groggy eyelids “First untie me though, I want to enjoy this.”

Dr. Anaheim paused for a moment, considering the pros and cons of releasing his prisoner. Sure that her husband could offer no assistance, and the girl was herself far too inebriated to resist, the doctor decided it could be mutually beneficial to at least release the arm restraints. After all, she was a junkie who weighed 100 pounds, at the most; what damage could she really do. “Very well, child,” he unbuckled the cuffs wrapped around Shayva’s wrists, “use your hands on me, but your legs stay; I don’t want you closing on me.” Dr. Anaheim then lowered the bottom-half of the gurney, positioning himself between Shayva’s legs before commencing his lascivious antics. He licked her body up and down, though warranted no response from his victim.

Shayva lay still, allowing the doctor to feel comfortable as he probed her body with his tongue. She stroked his back and chest with a free hand, letting him relish in the wet warmth of her loins. “Go down” she instructed with a smile, and the sick-doctor obeyed without hesitation. As her most precious gift was befouled, Shayva reminded herself of the many unsavory acts she had committed during her lifetime, all of them done of her own free will. This would be easy, he wouldn’t even reach climax.

As the doctor’s head bobbed up and down between her legs, Shayva’s hand slowly crept towards the operating tray still resting next to the gurney. Carefully, she retrieved the first object she could reach that had the potential to serve as a weapon; a pair of golden forceps with pointed tips. As the sick-doctor lapped at her juices, Shayva raised her arm, ready to bring the weapon down with all the force she had retained in reserve. The movement of her arms caused the doctor to mistakenly assume the girl was lost in the throngs of ecstasy, and he looked up to savor the sight. His eyes met with hers, and the fire burning within Shayva made clear to the doctor her actual intent. As he tried to step away, his pants, loosely hanging off his knees, prevented him from moving. The look of confusion and despair on the sick doctor’s face made her smile, and Shayva brought the golden forceps down, crashing into the doctor’s left eye. Dr. Watts Anaheim’s mouth opened in preparation to release a ghoulish howl, but no sound came out. Rather, the doctor fumbled onto his back, pants around his knees, golden forceps sticking out of his left eye. Blood began pooling around his head as it rushed out of his ocular cavity onto the floor. The bottle of pills, which the doctor had kept clamped inside his hand, rolled across the examination room, stopping as it met the body of Nevik Rush.

V

                Shayva unfastened the leg restraints binding her to the gurney, and quickly collected the medicine. After taking stock of the remaining pills – 6 80mg tabs – she looked at her husband writhing on the floor; dried blood outlined his matted hairline, though he had not lost consciousness – he was too sick. “Come on Nevik, wake up…we have to leave, rovers are on their way.” Her voice pleaded as she feebly tried to lift him onto the gurney. As she got him to his feet, the sensation of blood rushing from his head down to the rest of his body caused nausea to set in, and Nevik vomited. “Jesus, man, come on.” Shayva had always hated all bodily fluids and discharges, save for her own, which she found she could tolerate with some degree of compassion.

“Too…sick…can’t walk…” Nevik collapsed on the gurney as soon as his body felt it underneath him. Without thinking, Shayva grabbed the operation tray, tossing the remaining instruments onto the floor. She then retrieved one of the pills from the bottle, licking the thin coating off before hastily crushing it up on the shiny metallic tray and holding it to her lover’s face.

“Here, breathe, deeply.” Nevik’s bloody face inhaled deeply as Shayva held the tray, the crushed white powder flying up his nose with every short snort. Remnants that did not make it into his nasal cavity mixed with the drying blood, forming a chalky paste around Nevik’s mouth and nose.

Having ingested the majority of the pill nasally, Nevik allowed his head to rest on the gurney. Though not nearly as fast-acting as intravenous or even intramuscular administration, the crushed pill did not require too much time to work, and within minutes life returned to his eyes. “What happened here?” Surveying the carnage of the examination room, it became clear to him that some terrible act of abuse had recently occurred there.

“This rapist-fuck got what he should’ve got a long time ago.” Shayva rifled through the doctor’s pockets as she spoke, producing a nearly full pack of cigarettes from his right breast pocket. “Score.” Shayva removed a cigarette from the pack, placing it between her puckered lips before realizing her lighter was in the pocket of the pants she had been stripped of moments earlier. “He was gonna trade us to the rovers” locating the lighter, she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply “…they’re coming here now…we gotta move.”

Nevik tried to stand on his shaky legs, the combination of the heavy narcotic stupor and the beating he had previously taken causing him to almost collapse before being steadied by Shayva. As he held onto his wife for balance, he noticed she was not wearing a top, and that her torso was covered with shallow claw marks. “What the hell, Shay?”

“I told you: this fuck was molesting me for sick kicks, using the medicine as leverage.” She held the bottle in her lover’s face as proof, then shoved the lit cigarette in between his lips. “If we don’t hurry, our fate will be the same as if this prick had finished the job.”

Nevik smoked the cigarette, and upon feeling his senses return to order, removed the sick doctor’s lab coat from the corpse. “Here, put this on; it isn’t much, but it’ll keep you warm while we find a new place to lay low.” He then collected his ginzu as well as a surgical saw which he handed to his wife.  “It’s too bad we can’t scour this place for more meds – guaranteed they’re here.” Nevik looked around the room that had almost meant the end of both he and his wife, realizing the dope his wife had procured from the sick doctor would be enough to at least get them to another safe location. “Alright, let’s go.”

Nevik and Shayva slowly made their way out of the besmirched examination room, back towards the lobby of the hospital.

VI

                Nevik and Shayva approached the main entrance to the building, the light from the outside world contrasting vividly with the artificial light of the hospital lobby. The speeder waited where they had left it, and the couple hurried to beat the pack of rovers that would undoubtedly be descending on them at any moment. As he crossed the threshold of the hospital, unseen hands hurled Nevik to the cold ground of the hospital’s foyer. Shayva screamed and lashed at the unknown assailant’s arm with the surgical saw, but was caught mid-swing by another hand. The face of a woman appeared from behind a pillar, and for an instant, Shayva thought she recognized civility, a trait long-lost in the world after the Last War. The thought was cut short by the woman’s other hand smashing into Shayva’s jaw, causing her to collapse into seemingly eternal darkness.

“You motherfuckers – get your god damned hands off her!” Nevik climbed to his feet and tried to attack the woman, but was caught in the gut by the fist of the other person – a man wearing a baklava. Falling to his knees, he thought he heard a voice say something about “helping addictizens”, then was forced to join his wife in unconsciousness as the woman brought the blunt end of the surgical saw down against his temple.

When he awoke, Shayva was already there. Though his body reflexively thrashed in an attempt to relieve himself from whatever shackles this newest group of degenerates had used to bind them, there were no restraints.

“They didn’t chain us” Shayva stood before a window, looking out to the open land surrounding her new domicile. “I don’t even think they want to hurt us…they think they’re helping us.”

Nevik sat up and look around the room; it was clean, but not clinical in nature. Surveying the bland decorating scheme, the generic furniture, he concluded they were in a motel somewhere. “It’s another motel? At least we’ll have running water. Hook up a pill, I need to fix.” The sharp pain in his gut tinged, the throbbing in his head became impossible to ignore as he stood up from the bed. His head had been bandaged and his body cleaned. Looking at his wife, it was obvious she too had been thoroughly cleaned, both of them dressed in white linens. “They washed us already, while I was out?”

Shayva kept her back turned as she spoke to her husband, “While we were both out. They took it, Nev, all of it. God knows what else they took when they were ‘cleaning’ us.”

“What do you mean, ‘they took it’? Took what?” Nevik hoped that by feigning ignorance he would somehow alter the reality of the situation.

“You know what the fuck I mean…the meds, Nev, they took our meds.” Shayva had turned from the window to face her husband. Though her physical self – her body, her face, her hair – shined in the morning light from being recently bathed, her eyes, her soul revealed a crushing sense of despair. She looked weaker than she ever had.

“What…” Nevik looked around the clean hotel room, “What do they want from us?” He checked the front door of the room, which would not budge.

“They locked it…from the outside.” Shayva did move as tears streamed down her face.

As if he had not heard her, Nevik pounded on the door of the hotel room. “Hey, someone! Open this fucking door…now!” There was no response. He pushed past his wife and examined the window. They were several stories up; jumping would clearly ruin anyone foolish enough to assume such an undertaking. The pain in his gut returned, causing him to double over before dry-heaving; he would have expunged any food in his stomach, though there was none to release. As he crouched on the floor, Nevik could feel his wife’s spindly fingers running through his hair. “What are we supposed to do? We made it this far, we can’t die now.” He clutched her legs as he sobbed. Shayva continued to stroke his head as she remained like a statue.

“They expect us to recover.” Her voice was soft, but the words held a meaning they both had avoided for the majority of their lives.

Nevik raised his weary head and looked at his wife; he thought to himself how sick she looked. Shayva wiped his eyes as he spoke. “What? You don’t mean…there’s none left….Shay, I don’t want that.”

“It’ll be OK, love, you just need to dose. Then we’ll start talking about what to do next.” As she finished speaking, a slit in the door of the apartment/cell opened, and a tray was inserted, upon which sat a single plastic cup containing no more than a gulp of red liquid.

Immediately he recognized the medicine, and his body instinctively backed away. “I don’t want it…I’ll be worse off…just give me back our shit!” Nevik screamed at the face hidden behind the door.

“It’s for your own good, sir. Please, just take the medicine…then we can get some food into your belly. We don’t want things to get worse for you.” The voice was that of a mature woman; not old, but definitely not his wife’s age.

Shayva gripped his arm as it tensed to smash whatever was closest. “Please, Nev, we have to do it…otherwise we’ll collapse. It’s been too long.”

Nevik knew his wife was right; what choice did he have? He’d been an addictizen most of his life, and it seemed more than plausible that his body would be unable to maintain basic functions if he were to cease medicating overnight. Slowly, with hesitation and dread, he inched towards the door and the medicine. Lifting the dose to his lips, the medicinal-cherry flavor smell wafted through his nasal cavities; the smell had always made him sick. Of course he had enrolled in state-sponsored cessation programs that focused on maintenance therapy many times before, though the effect of the alternative medicines had never quite worked for Nevik. He swallowed the syrupy shot, wondering how long it would it would last this time.

The voice from behind the door chimed-in again once he finished taking his prescription. “Good…see, that wasn’t so bad. Now, just relax, let it take effect and we’ll be back to check on the two of you before long.” The voice directed itself to Shayva, “Ma’am, how are you feeling? Everything alright?”

“Fine…Everything’s fine. Just leave us alone, please.” Shayva’s voice was cold, full of contempt. Nevik understood why: they hadn’t asked for help – it was being forced on them. Before the Last War they had spent their lives fighting a world which insisted on imposing help on those deemed less fortunate. What this world never understood, and what it hadn’t learned since the Last War, was that Nevik and Shayva, and everyone like them, had chosen this lifestyle. Who was anybody else to dictate how they should live their lives.

“Very well. Someone will be back to check on you here in a bit. Until then, try not to get overly excited; we would hate to see either of you waste your daily rations. After we’re sure the medicine takes, we’ll bring you to lunch.” The slit in the door slapped close, leaving Nevik and Shayva alone in the room again.

“Who are you people…why did you bring us here?” Nevik’s unanswered questions bounced of the reinforced door back at him. Even as his conscious-self tried to invoke emotions of anger in response to essentially being forcibly drugged, Nevik’s subconscious began to revel in the relief offered by the medication. He turned to his wife, who had curled up on the bed. She looked beautiful, and her sickness seemed to be subsiding. “What now?”

“Now we wait. Come here,” Shayva motioned for her husband to join her in what were probably the most sanitary sleeping arrangements either of them had known in years. “Let’s just be comfortable for now.”

Nevik climbed into the white bed were his wife, dressed in see-through white linens waited for him. He had not been clothed after he had been washed, though this did not bother him. He kissed Shayva long and passionately before they both fell asleep in a mass of naked flesh and clean fabric.

VII

                When the large bolt locking the apartment from the outside was finally disengaged, Nevik and Shayva awoke from the first instance of peaceful sleep they had found in months. The powerfully sedating effects of the new medicine had allowed them rest unimpeded by the horrors that had beset the world. The door opened and a woman dressed in scrubs and wearing a lab coat entered, followed by two rather brutish looking males. Though he could not be sure, Nevik guessed the woman to be somewhere in her late forties or early fifties; he immediately assumed hers was the voice they heard earlier, the men he guessed to be not much older than himself.  Without asking or eye-contact the woman began checking the vital functions of Shayva, who had groggily sat up in the bed. Nevik did not move, as the menacing gaze of the guards had not left him since entering the room.

“How did you rest? I imagine you both must feel much better by now.” The woman seemed appeased by Shayva’s pulse, breathing, and temperature, and moved on to check Nevik’s heart rate and blood pressure. As she reached for his wrist, Nevik flinched away, fearing a repeat of the previous day’s events. The guards took a step towards the bed, ready to restrain the naked patient. “There, there…no need to be afraid. We are here to help you.” The woman’s voice had the intended effect of calming Nevik, who offered his wrist in compliance. The room sat in silence as the woman read his vital signs. Finally, after making sure all was right with her patients, the woman spoke: “Very good, you both seem to be coming along quite well. You’re very lucky, the two of you; most addictizens eventually succumb to the violent nature of the New World.”

Nevik and Shayva looked at each other in silence; they had run into groups of militarized humanitarian groups before, and never with good outcomes. More often than not these organizations had sought to impose their own value systems on others, projecting internal guilt outwards. “Who are you people…what is this place?” Nevik’s voice was slow but coherent, the effects of the dose doing much to subdue his persona.

As she answered, the doctor began to exit the room, though the guards waited behind to make sure the new patients cooperated with the physician’s orders. “My name is Ruth Sindow, and I help to administer the Program in this place…”

Shayva interrupted the woman, “You’re a doctor, then?”

“No sweet child, I am but a caregiver. I used to be an accountant for a large marketing firm; I was staying at this hotel when the first strikes of the Last War were launched, and I never left…”

Again, Shayva interrupted, “what is it that you do here?”

“We rebuild. Here we have all the amenities of modern society, and we are relatively safe.” Ruth gestured to the window, “Thirty stories between us and the terror below. We only require that members new to the Program contribute their time and energy to maintaining our ration stores.” She smiled at the young couple, eagerly anticipating their response.

“What about the dose? Where does it come from?” Nevik chimed as one of the guards directed him into his own linen outfit. “Phewww…these things are a little drafty” he exclaimed as the chill from outside the room ran through the thin fabric.

“You’ll get used to it once your body normalizes the effects of the dose. As far as where it comes from, well, it is the result of a group effort that we are able to maintain our rations. Fear not, you will see before long. Please, follow me.” Ms. Sindow was standing in the hallway, waiting for the couple to join her. Nevik headed to the door, past his wife who was being dressed by one of the guards, who was clearly enjoying his job too much. Unsure of what to do, Nevik deferred to Ruth with a glance of his eyes. Sensing his discomfort, she commanded the guard, “That’ll do for now, A1B”. The guard stopped pawing at Shayva, who was too high to recognize the indiscretion, steering her into the hallway after her husband and the caregiver. The door to the apartment closed behind them, as Nevik and Shayva were escorted into the dining hall on the fifth floor of the hotel.

VIII

                The large room, which had probably served as a banquet hall at some point in pre-war history, was well lit and warm. Nevik forgot about the thin nature of his garments as he marveled over the various dishes setup on display throughout the room. Suddenly a hunger he had never known forced its’ way into his consciousness, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse. Shayva experienced a similar sensation, but rather than wait for instructions, upon entering the room blurted out: “Oh my God, I’m so fucking famished!” and proceeded to gorge herself on hotcakes and tinned sausages.

“Go ahead, son, eat-up” Ms. Sindow pointed Nevik towards the nearest plate of food, encouraging him to eat.

After they had piled their plates higher than could be managed, Nevik and Shayva sat with Ms. Sindow at a table. Though the banquet hall was quite large and seemed to have been well maintained, it was vacant. Clearly, however, it had been recently prepared for the arrival of the new guests.

“There’s no one here. What is this place?” Nevik chewed through the words as he negotiated a piece of pork.

“There are many others, Nevik; they’re at work now.” Shayva hardly looked up from her meal as Ruth spoke. “We have a Program in place here; everyone has a part. You two will have your parts to play also.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Shayva’s voice was distant, her conscious self too contented by synthetic bliss and home-cooked food to really care about whatever else was happening around her.

Ruth Sindow watched the two new arrivals ravage their rations with stoic reverence; she knew her guests would not be able to refuse what the Program had to offer. “We are always searching for new sources of medicine for our patients. So, on a rotating basis residents are sent out into the world in search of abandoned hospitals and medical clinics; we’ve amassed quite a reserve over the last few months. More menial items are collected on less-thorough salvage missions. Other residents are assigned other domestic tasks; cleaning, sewing, washing – we have indoor gardens on the twentieth floor that must be maintained.”

“Sounds great.” Shayva continued chewing her food, without looking at either the caretaker or her husband.

“Who decides who does what; is there some kind of elected body for that?” Nevik had not eaten much of his food, as the explanation of this new community had been fairly encompassing.

Ruth laughed at the question, and though her tone was playful, Nevik sensed a level of mockery in it. “Oh my…since when did your kind care about politics? Don’t worry, son, you’ll be cared for; you’ll never be sick again. Now, eat up, you’ll have your work cut out for you tomorrow. Today you’ll meet the Administrator.”

IX

                The Administrator’s quarters were on the top floor of the hotel, the long ride from the fifth floor to the penthouse suite made less tedious by the amazing view of the cityscape through the elevator’s glass windows. Noticing the new arrival’s astonishment, Ms. Sindow remarked, “hard to imagine all that’s left down there is terror and heartache…and your medicine.” Neither of them turned to answer her.

“It looks so peaceful from up here.” Shayva’s face was plastered against the cold glass of the elevator, fog condensing around her nose and mouth.

The elevator stopped, chiming as it reached its’ destination. The door opened revealing the Administrator’s penthouse. The opulence and sheer extravagance of the room was unlike anything Nevik or Shayva had experienced since the Last War and the decimation of society. Beautiful paintings and sculptures decorated the room, while fine rugs and leather couches begged to be relished.

“Please, my guests, do come in.” A fine-looking man of Persian decent dressed in a fine suit beckoned for them to enter, as Ms. Sindow gently prodded them out of the elevator. “I am the Administrator, and I welcome you to our community. Please, sit.” The man gestured to a pair of sitting chairs before a set of guards dressed in medical scrubs emerged, taking both Nevik and Shayva by the shoulder, encouraging them to sit. Nevik instinctively flinched, but the guard was able to force him into the seat before he could escape. “Please, my friend, do not be alarmed. We have scanned you both for known diseases and you’re healthy, which I must say, is quite amazing. Even the war withstanding, as addictizens, it a miracle neither of you contracted the illness during your lifetimes.” Nevik looked at his wife, who was playing close attention to the Administrator’s words, like a new recruit at a weekend evangelical retreat. Shayva did not notice her husband’s concerned eyes. “You are both mentally stable,” the Administrator continued, “at least as far as addictizens can be considered stable, and so are eligible to remain here, with us; safe from the terrors of the world.”

Ruth Sindow chimed in, “You both should feel very fortunate that the Administrator found you when he did. I doubt either of you would have survived much longer out there. The Program will offer you the salvation you hearts so desire.”

“Ms. Sindow is right: the Program is the answer to the question of each of our lives. We will give your purpose; everything you do will be to ensure the next dose. It’s everything any addictizen ever wanted.” The Administrator delivered his speech like a salesman with a client on the hook.

Nevik interrupted, “I don’t understand; what is all this for?”

As the words left his mouth, the guard nearest him struck him in the jaw; not too hard, but hard enough to silence him. Shayva did not move her eyes, keeping them trained on the Administrator’s fine suit. Nevik turned to the guard, glaring at him with a suppressed rage he had not felt in years. The guard smiled down at the feeble addict.

“You mustn’t speak during the Administrator’s messages, Nevik; you must listen.” Ms. Sindow’s voice sounded concerned, but only as that of a paid caretaker worrying over her meal-ticket.”

“It’s OK, A2C, he didn’t know; but he does now, right friend?” The Administrator chuckled a generic laugh as he patted Nevik on the arm. “Now, on to your first assignments: Nevik, you are able-bodied and I think it’s safe to say you have a fighting spirit. There is a farm not far from here where a veterinarian used to live and work; tomorrow you will accompany a salvage team to the property and see what you can find. It’s not far and should be relatively safe; a good first mission for any newcomer.” The Administrator then let his eyes fall on Shayva, who he looked up and down in an instant before continuing. “Shayva, you are not a fighter and so will be assigned domestic chores here under Ms. Sindow. Now: off you go. I suggest you both get some rest before tomorrow.”

Before either of them could protest, agree, or even respond, Shayva and Nevik were being ushered out of the Administrator’s penthouse by Ms. Sindow back into the elevator. After descending the many floors back to their own accommodations, they were each distributed an evening dose by the caretaker, and locked in their room. Nevik watched as his wife droopily climbed onto the soft bed that had been remade in their absence.

“You think it’s good?” Nevik no longer felt the pain of abstention; the second dose had begun working in conjunction with the first and his mind was becoming lost in the opiate haze of the Program.

“Of course it’s good, Nev – no more wondering; it’s what we’ve been looking for our entire lives.” Shayva had long since lost herself in the bliss of the Program, and had curled up on the bed, pleasure swelling through her body.  “Come lay with me before I crash; we’ll be working separate chores tomorrow.”

Nevik let his reservations about the Program dissipate as he spooned his wife on the clean bed covered in soft linens. Their stoned hands explored every inch of the other’s body as they spent the night wrestling in the throes of ecstasy.

X

                The banging on the door snapped Nevik out the deep slumber that had followed the previous evening’s sexual exploits, and he turned to his wife who had not been fazed by the racket.

“Shayva, someone’s at the door.” For a moment, Nevik forgot about the Program and where he was, worried a pack of rovers had found them and was readying sharp knives to peel the flesh off their bodies.

The slot in the door parted, and an orderly’s voice shouted into the room. “Open up! I’ve got your morning dose, but not until your dressed and ready to work.” The voice seemed to project towards the floor, “Your work clothes are there; get ‘em on and then you can dose.”

Nevik could feel the first dose losing its’ potency, and a cramp in his stomach had started to churn itself around his guts. “My stomach hurts, I don’t think I can work today.” He nudged his sleeping wife. “Shay, they want us to get up and work; they say we can’t dose until we’re dressed and ready to go.”

“That pain will go away once you dose, and in a few days, once the medicine has built itself up in your system, it’ll go away entirely. Now let’s go, we got work to do.”

Shayva leapt out of bed and began dressing herself in the hotel maid’s uniform that had obviously been left for her. “Come on, Nev, get dressed. It’ll be fine. No more worries, remember?” She was pulling the bland dress over her naked body, ignoring the anonymous eyes watching her through the door slot. She then began tying the laces of the white shoes that had been set next to the work boots that were clearly left for her husband.

“A little privacy, please.”He clamored across the bed and began pulling on the coveralls that had been left for him.

“Sorry, sir, it’s our job to make sure you both comply before receiving your dose.” The orderly’s voice was snide.

“Whatever; I’m ready, can I please dose now?” Shayva stood in front of the door, anxiously awaiting her medication.

“Not until you’re both ready.”

Nevik finished lacing up and tying the boots, then stood next to his wife. “OK, how about now…good enough?” The bottom half of the slot flipped open and two plastic bottles filled with red liquid were produced.

“By order of the Administrator we’ve upped both of your doses by ten milligrams, and will continue to do so until you’ve both leveled out.” The door opened to the tune of the anonymous voice, revealing another large guard dressed in medical scrubs. The orderly looked Shayva up and down, who again did not seem to notice, then sneered at Nevik. “This way, you two.”

Nevik and Shayva followed the large man into the elevator, which began to descend. At the twentieth floor, it stopped, the door opening to a make-shift factory floor, though no one worked the many sewing machines or other appliances scattered throughout the room.

“This is you” the guard pushed Shayva out of the elevator “they’ll be here to instruct you momentarily. Enjoy yourself.” Shayva turned to face her husband, a puzzled look covering her face, but could not question the situation before the elevator door closed. “And now for yours” the guard pressed the button for the ground-level as he spoke.

“What about her…what’ll she do?” Nevik was worried; even though his wife had been dropped off at what was unmistakably a factory, there was no evidence of actual life on the floor.

“Don’t you worry about her; she’s in the hands of the Program now, she’ll be fine.” The guard’s voice was distressing to Nevik.

“Fine how? What kind of work will she do?”

“Whatever kind of work assigned to her for today.” The orderly turned to look Nevik in the eye. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about my own duties than those of some other resident.”

“Some other resident? That’s my wife, man.”

“That was your wife, and you were her husband. Now you’re both enrolled in the Program, and there are no wives or husbands in the Program; only members.” The guard no longer looked at Nevik, but smiled and looked straight ahead.

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course she’s my wife – you can’t just make her forget me.” The doors of the elevator opened to the street as he finished speaking, where two men dressed in work coveralls similar to Nevik’s waited. The guard pushed him out of the elevator into the company of the two men. “It didn’t look to me like anybody made anyone do anything.” The elevator doors closed, leaving him alone with the strange men.

XI

                “Hey, I’m Ted, and this is Ed.” The taller of the two men spoke, gesturing to his companion. “We used to be addictizens, too, like you. But the Program saved us.”

“Yeah, saved us…the Program.” The smaller man, Ed, was childish in his speech patterns, and clearly looked to the other man for leadership.

“Great, I’m Nevik. What are we doing here, and what about Shayva?”

“Scavenging…heh-heh…securing goods…heh-heh…maybe find some dope…heh-heh” Ed half spoke to himself as words fought through grunts to form sentences.

“She your wife? I wouldn’t worry ‘bout her…she’ll be just fine.” Ted turned and straddled what had been Nevik’s speederbike.

“That’s mine…how did that get here?”

“It’s the Programs now; no members are allowed personal property – everything for everyone. We’re all in this together.” Ted recited the idioms of the Program as he engaged the engine. “We’re going a couple miles outta town to collect supplies; some old abandoned farmhouse.” Ed joined his companion on the vehicle as it grumbled in anticipation of travel. “Get on, it’s not far – we can all fit.”

Nevik straddled the rear of the bike and had hardly secured himself before Ted gunned the throttle, rocketing them off into the early morning air. The ride to the farmhouse was not far, and before long the speederbike, weighed down by its’ three passengers pulled up to the large wrought-iron gate enclosing the property.  The thick lock securing the entryway was still clasped.

“Looks like someone’s still in there.” Nevik remarked as dismounted the vehicle to examine the gate.

“No problem, we got these.” Ted removed a large-caliber handgun from his waste and fired at the lock, causing it to crumble to the ground. The gate creaked as it opened. “See…no problem. Now get back on and let’s get this done.”

“Yeah…let’s get it done.” Ed remained on the speeder as Ted remounted; Nevik remained by the gate.

“Where did that come from?” Nevik asked as Ted holstered the gun.

“Heh-heh…Program initiative 22…heh-heh… all members on salvage missions will be armed.” Ed fumbled the words as he pulled a gun from within his jacket; it was Nevik’s .

“So what…arbitrary redistribution of all property? That’s my weapon.” He reached for the ginzu that was not there. “What do I get…for protection.”

“For now, stay close to us. You’ll get yours once you’ve earned it.” The  engine grumbled under Ted’s voice as they waited for the new member. “Now get on, we got work to do.”

“yeah…heh-heh…work to do…” Ed’s voice was unsettling as Nevik joined the two men on the vehicle. As soon as he was on, Ted cranked the throttle, rocketing down the main path.

The farmhouse was quaint; not decadent, but not too country either. The people that had lived here had enjoyed the amenities of modern life before the Last War. The speeder pulled to a halt in front of the house and all three men got off, Ted and Ed with their guns drawn.

“Now you just stay behind us…we’ll make sure everythin’s OK.” Ted crept up the patio stairs to the heavy oak door of the farmhouse.

“Heh-heh…yeah…stay behind us.” Ed followed, as had probably been his custom for most of his life.

Ted tried the heavy brass handle, but it did not turn; it was locked from the inside. Before another thought could pass, Ed smashed the looking-window adjacent to the door. “Fine work, Eddy, fine work.” Ed smiled at his superior’s satisfaction with his work, then reached his arm through the shattered glass and turned the bolt locking the door. “Fine work, indeed.” Ted pushed the door open, which creaked softly as it moved.

The house was in fine order; clearly it had not been ransacked during the first wave of riots. There was a warmth in the house that made it feel as though the previous occupants had never left. The unmistakable smell of cocoa wafted through the foyer into Nevik’s nose: someone was home. “Guys, someone’s here…”

Ted quickly turned and covered Nevik’s mouth. “Quiet! You want to give us away?” Ed brandished his weapon as the other man spoke. Nevik shook his head, indicated that he did not want to give away their position to anyone left in the house. “Good, now keep quiet.” Ted removed his hand and continued to silently lurk through the house.

As the three men reached the kitchen, a teenage girl darted out from behind the counter-top stove where water was boiling for cocoa. Ted quickly grabbed the girl as she screamed for his parents.

“Y’all get down here now, ya hear? We got your girl and you don’t want us to have to do nothing bad to her because of you, so come out…now!” Ted held the girl, who could not have been more than 17, close to his body with barrel of his gun pressed against her temple. Ed eyeballed the girl with filthy intent.

The creaking of the oak steps leading to the second floor of the house could be heard as the rest of the family cautiously came down to the kitchen. An older man, perhaps in his fifties walked in front of another man, no more than thirty years of age. They entered the kitchen, the sight of their young family member being held in dire straits instantly driving the older man to tears.

“Take what you want…we have guns…we have medicine…we have food…please don’t hurt the girl, she’s just a child.” The older man locked eyes with his daughter, “Don’t worry, Shelly, it’ll be fine. We’re gonna give the nice men what they want and then they’ll be on their ways,” his eyes moved back to Ted’s, who continued pointing the gun at the girl, “right?”

“Oh don’t you worry, old-timer, we’ll take what we came for, but first, who else is here?”

“No one, just me and the children.”
“Where’s your wife? I know you didn’t make these beautiful kids by yourself” Ted sneered as he spoke, pressing the barrel harder against the girl’s head, causing her to shriek.

“No, no, no…don’t hurt her. There’s nobody else – wife died during the chemical campaign – it’s just me and my kids, so please, take what you want and go.”

Ted looked at Ed who stopped eye-fucking the girl long enough to give his associate a look of disgusting intent. Without hesitation, Ted pointed his gun at the old man and fired, connecting directly with the center of his forehead. The old man collapsed into a clump of lifeless matter, blood spilling out around him. The boy drew a small caliber pistol from behind his back and fired one shot, hitting Ed in the leg before Ted fired a second, then a third shot into his chest. The boy staggered back a few steps before collapsing next to his father, their blood mixing into one giant pool.

“Awww….my fucking leg….that son bitch got me!” Ed howled as he clutched his leg; Nevik’s glock lay on the ground where it had been dropped during the commotion.

Ted spun the girl and lashed her in the face with the butt of his gun. “God damn it woman! You didn’t think to tell us they were armed?” He butted her again, causing blood to flow from her cheek. “Now you have to pay for it!” He turned the girl around, bending her over the kitchen table. “Get over here, Ed, take your payment.”

Ed hobbled to the table, removing his coveralls as he limped. “Yeah…payment….damn thing hurts..heh-heh…” The two men ripped the girls pants off as she screamed, revealing a supple, white ass, now covered only by a thin cotton fabric.

“She’s all yours…” Ted stepped back as Ed straddled the girl from behind and began doing his worst. The blood from his gunshot wound spilled onto the girl’s legs so that eventually it was impossible to distinguish hers from his. Every time she cried out, the dirty man slammed her head against the kitchen table. “Come on, newbie, let’s give them some alone time.” Ted headed out of the kitchen.

“What the fuck? We can’t do this…this is totally fucked! I’m no rapist!” Nevik went to pull Ed off the unconscious girl, but was stopped by the sensation of Ted’s gun against the back of his head.

“I say what we can and can’t do…and I say Ed can have his way with that girl, then I can, and then, if you want, so can you. For now, though, we collect supplies…get it?” Ted pressed the gun harder to emphasize his point.

“Yes, I get it.” Ted lowered the gun, and Nevik’s eyes locked on the glock still lying on the floor of the kitchen. Without thinking, he turned to Ted, “I get that you two are a couple of sick fucks!” The insult had the desired effect, and Ted smashed Nevik in the head with the gun, causing him to fall to the floor. As he feigned extreme pain from his attacker’s blow, Nevik conspicuously secured the weapon.

“You got anything else to say, pretty boy? If the Administrator didn’t want you back in one piece, I’d finish you right now. Fuck it anyhow…stand up! You’ve met and exceeded your life’s usefulness.” Nevik could sense the gun being pointed at him as the smaller man continued to unabashedly rape the young girl. In a single, fluid motion, he stood, keeping his back turned to the larger man. “That’s a good boy; now let’s go get whatever salvageable items we can find before Eddy finishes up…I don’t want her to get cold while she waits for round two.” Ted turned his back on Nevik as only a junkie preoccupied with finding more junk would. Nevik raised the weapon and squeezed the trigger, firing into the back of Ed’s head, who collapsed, falling off the lifeless girl who did not move. Ted spun back around, butting him in the back of the head. Nevik fell to the ground, as Ted began kicking him. “You motherfucker! That’s Ed! You killed Ed! What’d you think you could save her?” Ted walked over to the ravaged girl, grabbing her by the hair and lifting her head from the table. “This one’s dead as dead, especially since that bullet of yours went straight through ol’ Ed and into her.” Ted brought the heel of his boot down against Nevik’s face, “Are you happy now? You didn’t save shit.” He kicked Nevik again, sending the lingering consciousness into the void of the subconscious.

XII

                When he came to, Nevik was in a dark room. The concrete floor was cold against the thin linens he was again dressed in. “Hello!?” He clawed through the blackness of the room until he found the door, which was locked from the outside. “Hello! Someone let me out of here!” He banged on the door, but to no response. The sweat was building on his back and his brow, it had been at least a day since his last dose; the bandages wrapped around his head having already fused with the blood which oozed from his wounds. A slot in the door opened, allowing light to penetrate the tiny room.

“You’re in a holding cell; the Administrator wants to speak with you now you’re awake.”
“I need my dose…I’m sick, I can feel it…I’m dying” Nevik pleaded with the voice on the other side of the door.

“You’re being punished by abstention; it is for the Administrator to decide when you can again receive your medical rations.” The slit in the door closed, returning the cell to darkness. Then, a lock was unlatched from the outside, and the cell door opened – the outside light revealed the cell to actually be a supply closet. The guard grabbed Nevik by the arm and pulled him out, then dragged him to the elevator and up to the Administrator’s penthouse.

As he entered the lavish room, he saw Ted sitting in a chair across from a sofa where the Administrator sat.

“Ahhh, Nevik, please come in.” The Administrator’s voice was pleasant and inviting as the guard shoved Nevik into a chair next to Ted. “I apologize for the rough treatment, but we have important rules here that must be followed…for the good of our community.” The Administrator looked to both Ted and Nevik, “now, why don’t you each tell me what happened; Nevik, you first.”

The guard standing behind him nudged Nevik in the arm, which due to withdrawals, was incredibly painful. “I was sent on the salvage mission, as you assigned. We were at a house that hadn’t been ruined by the Last War; this family was surviving, and this sick fuck and his friend destroyed it!”

“How do you mean ‘destroyed it’, Nevik?”

“He shot the men dead, and his sick buddy raped the girl to death…”

Ted interrupted, “Don’t listen to this addictizen; he’s still a junkie. Hasn’t been on the Program long enough to be taken at his word…” The crushing blow delivered by the guard standing behind them silenced Ted.

“Ted, you’ll have your chance. Please do not interrupt again.” Ted silently nodded his head in response to the Administrator’s order. “Now, Nevik, please continue.”

“It was instinct; even in my darkest days as an addictizen I never perpetrated such heinous acts…on anyone, ever. So, I shot him…I shot Ed, in the head…but it was too late, she was already gone.”

The Administrator subtly licked his lips, adjusting his glasses as he spoke, “Yes, go on, then what?”

“That’s it, Ted beat the lights out of me, and I woke up here. I don’t even know what we were doing there! Those people were fine; they didn’t need us to interfere – now look what’s happened to them!” Nevik felt tears welling up in his eyes, though he was not sure if it was from the recital of the awful events that had taken place at the farmhouse, or from simply not having dosed in a day or so. “What about my meds…when can I dose?”

“Soon, my son, very soon. First, let’s hear Ted’s version of the story.” The Administrator’s eyes turned to the scraggly man, who was also obviously undergoing abstention therapy.

“Well…that’s about it…like he said. Please, sir, I need my dose…it’s been too long. It feels like I have bugs crawling through every pore of my body…” Ted’s voice was shaky; it was evident he had not dealt with withdrawal symptoms for some time.

This realization made Nevik happy, and he smiled to himself, though the Administrator caught the instantaneous smile, which he returned. “Well, gentlemen, since you both agree on the events which took place at the farm, it is my judgement that although Mr. Nevik did knowingly take the life of another Program member, he did so in an effort to protect an innocent. However you, Mr. Ted, acted only out of self-gratification, as did Mr. Ed, without any regard for the better good of the community. Therefore, like Mr. Ed, you cannot be trusted.” The guard slipped a plastic bag around Ted’s head, pulling a cord to tighten the bag around the man’s neck, cutting off the flow of oxygen. Ted flailed in a futile attempt to thwart his own suffocation, until the guard brought a club down, smashing into Ted’s face, rendering him unconscious. The guard continued to smash the suffocating man until his body no longer twitched, and the bag was nearly full of blood.

“You see, Nevik, we must all live righteously if this community is to survive.” The Administrator stood and walked to the bar in the corner of the penthouse. Opening a cabinet concealed by a mirror, he retrieved a skin-popper Nevik recognized as a propopinol injector; there were countless more hidden within the cabinet. The Administrator closed the cabinet and walked to Nevik, whose eyes remained fixated on the popper. “We can’t just go around raping and pillaging,” the familiar popping sound made by the injector breaking his skin sent the first rush of relief through Nevik’s body, “we have specific guidelines for all these things. We have reproduction programs as well as rules of appropriation.” The Administrator gestured towards the dead man being dragged out of the suite, “Ted knew those rules, and he broke them, and he paid the price. You had not been made aware of these rules, so you were punished with a mere day’s worth of abstention. You will have another chance,” the warmth of the propopinol surging through his veins made Nevik smile, “but only one.” The Administrator grabbed him by the face, as one would a child. “If you disrupt the peace of the Program just once more, you will be terminated.” The Administrator released Nevik’s face, turning away from him as if to attend to some other, more pressing business.

“And Shayva…what about my wife?” Nevik remained seated, though his eyes burned with rage.

“Your wife? Surely you’ve learned that members of the Program possess nothing, especially not other people. Sister Shayva is fine; she’s waiting in your room, though she hasn’t seemed too concerned by your delayed return. That’s one’s turning out to be a model Member; you could learn something from her.” Nevik sat with his mouth wide open as he was pulled from the comfortable chair in the beautiful penthouse, into the elevator and back down to his room in the grand hotel.

XIII

                When he returned to his room, Nevik found his wife resting on the bed, which had once again been made perfectly. The sound of the door closing and being locked behind him caused Shayva to stir, though she did not open eyes, but cracked a subtle smile.

“Your back…how was it?” Her voice was muffled through the sheets, but did not sound overly concerned.

“I’m back, finally. Do you even know how long I was gone…or what I was doing?” Though he tried to remain strong, his words betrayed the terror that had built inside him.

“You were on a salvage mission, for us, for everyone here. I know you’re back…” Shayva’s voice trailed off as a fresh wave of opiate lust covered her mind.

Nevik feared for the safety of both himself and his wife, and desperately needed her attention. He climbed onto the bed, softly touching his wife’s hip as she rested on her side. “Shayva, they’re murderers and slave-drivers, all of them. They send us out to rape and pillage, hoping we’ll get ourselves killed. I don’t think you’d survive one of these missions…” Shayva had drifted back into sleep and snored lightly as he spoke, upsetting her husband who began shaking her upper leg. “Do you hear me!? These are sick people here, we have to leave..”

Shayva angrily rolled over so that she could face her husband. Bruises ringed her neck like a collar where someone had strangled her; bite marks were visible on her chest. “Jesus Nev, just do whatever you have to; we have it good here.” She brushed his hand off her hip in a whimper of slight pain. Nevik pulled her linen pants below her hip, revealing bruises across her ass.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Nevik recoiled in horror. “How did this happen! It’s time to leave – NOW.” He leapt off the bed and began checking the door for weaknesses.

Shayva sat up, covering herself with the unbuttoned linen top. “Calm down, Nev. No one did this to me, I let them; I was assigned reproduction duties. Actually they said I did a great job, and I don’t have to work again until next week.” She laughed to herself. “It’ll take at least that long before we can be sure I’ve conceived; besides: my body’ll need that time to tighten up again.”

“Are you listening to yourself? You’re allowing them to use you as a sex toy, and a violent one at that.” Nevik examined the bruising around her neck. “Why would they do this?”

Shayva pushed his hand away with an air of annoyance. “Don’t fuck this up Nevik. I know what I’m doing, and I’m ok with it. The Program keeps me well, and as long as I do my part, I stay well. That’s more than you ever offered.”

Nevik was disgusted. Had she always been like this? Or was her newfound behavior and lack of self-respect the result of the new medicine. “We have to get out of here, Shay. They’re going to kill us once they’re through with us…do you understand that?”

“I understand you’re afraid, as usual.” Shayva let her body fall back onto the bed, the mocking tone of her voice bouncing with her head as it hit the pillow. “Afraid of doing what has to be done to survive. Is the big bad world too scary for little Nevik? Suck it up – do what you have to.”

“They want me to murder innocent people, Shay. Is that ok with…” the slit in the door opened, delivering their doses, and interrupting Nevik.

“Whatever it takes to stay well…” Shayva’s voice trailed off as she stumbled from the bed to retrieve her meds. “Whatever, whatever, whatever…” The mattress muffled her voice as she landed face-first on the linens.

Nevik stood watching helplessly; the dose waiting for him in the door compartment seemed to call his name, but the sight of his abused wife made it hard to accept the Program’s charitable offerings. Realizing the propopinol shot would be wearing off soon, he snatched the small bottle containing the syrupy red medicine and downed the contents, aware that the dose was slightly higher than in previous days.

XIV

                By Nevik’s best guestimate, more than two months had passed since he and Shayva had been taken in by the Program. He had tallied more than 120 doses on the wall of his hotel room, and with every passing week, the bottles containing the medicine had become more full. Over the course of that time, Nevik had been sent on several salvage excursions, and had witnessed fellow Program Members commit unspeakable acts of ultra-violence on citizens scraping to hold on to any fleeting vestiges of life before the Last War. Regardless of how these atrocities had affected him mentally, Nevik had not expressed his disapproval at the Program’s methods since his abstention therapy. He simply travelled to whatever destination was assigned and collected whatever goods were available, all the while ignoring the screams of innocent lives being shattered.

Over the course of the transpiring months, Shayva had devolved into the worst kind of junkie; willing to trade sexual favors to Program leaders in return for higher doses. She had hardly looked at her husband during the past few weeks, let alone had the strength to satisfy him during her recuperation periods. Worst of all: Shayva seemed content to live out her days as a slave to the Program. Nevik, however, had decided to break from the Program and return to the savage beast of the post-war world. This would be his last day as a Member of the Program; he just hoped he could convince Shayva to leave with him.

“Shay, it’s time to get up; our doses will be here soon, then we have our periodical reviews with the Administrator.” He sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed in his work clothes, ready to make this day his last as a slave.

The word “dose” worked like an alarm clock, and Shayva sat up in bed like a puppet being pulled by a string. “Finally, I slept like shit last night. I knew I should’ve taken my extra rations before going to sleep.” Because of her willingness to participate in the charade of the Program, she had been afforded daily allotments of propopinol shots to help her sleep. Shayva reached into the nightstand furnished by the hotel, but the shot was not there. “Where the fuck is it, Nev? Did you touch my shit?”

Nevik sat motionless on the bed. “No dear. Salvagers aren’t allowed extra rations, remember?”

“Well it’s not here…I know I left it right here!” Shayva flung the contents of the nightstand across the room, but could not find her shot.

“Maybe you used it already, and forgot. Besides, our doses are ready.” As the words left his mouth, the compartment in the door opened, containing to full bottles of medicine. Nevik took his and swallowed it whole, while Shayva rushed from the bed to take her own dose.

As soon as she had downed the medicine, Shayva screamed into the door-slot, “He took my extra rations! I want to speak to the Administrator!”

Without any verbal response, the door opened, the guard in medical scrubs stood standing on the other side. “Is this true? Did you unlawfully appropriate this woman’s rations?”

“Of course not…she’s high, probably doesn’t remember taking it.” As he spoke, Nevik looked his wife’s battered body up and down: bruises and marks covered her skinny frame; her ribs poked out of her chest and her breasts had shriveled into nothing. The beauty he had come to recognize in her had been all but used up in a matter of weeks. He couldn’t imagine how the small bump in her belly had survived even this long. “Look at her; clearly she’s taking too much.”

“Fuck you Nev! You don’t know shit! I want to speak with the Administrator…now!” Shayva’s voice was filled with a hatred Nevik had never known his wife to possess.

“Very well,” The guard seemed pleased, “we’ll see what the Administrator has to say about this. Let’s go!” Shayva hurried out of the room towards the elevator, still topless. Nevik slowly followed, unsure how his plan would unfold.

As the elevator reached the penthouse, Nevik slipped the propopinol popper he had stolen from his wife the night before out of his sleeve. When the elevator chimed, marking their arrival at the Administrator’s penthouse, Nevik jabbed the popper into the neck of the guard. The elevator doors opened just as the subdued guard could no longer fight the effects of the drug. Obviously he was one for clean-living, and his body was not accustomed to heavy narcotic highs. The guard’s heavy body collapsed face-first onto the floor of the suite, interrupting the Administrator, who was engaged in some romantic appointment. Rather than the fine suit Members of the Program had come to associate him with, the Administrator was dressed in little more than a robe. The young street urchin engaged in pleasuring him sat up in bewilderment, her wild eyes still filled with the chaos of the street. Ruth Sindow looked on in approval, smiling at Nevik as he entered the suite.

“No one told you to stop.” The Administrator’s voice was defiant, as he showed no fear of the intruders. Ms. Sindow nodded her head in a gesture for the girl to continue her duty, to which she obediently complied.

Shayva turned to her husband, “Nevik don’t! I told you not to fuck this up!” She clawed at her husband with bony fingers, the force of which negligible.

Nevik grabbed her by the arms and spun her around so that they both faced the Administrator. “Enough! I want out!”

“Of course you are free to leave as you please, Nevik, but tell me, where will you go?” Ms. Sindow’s voice was soft and professional. The Administrator seemed hardly embarrassed of the fallacious activity in which he was engaged.

Knowing his wife had been subjected to the same heartless scenario, Nevik snapped. “Anywhere but here, you sick motherfuckers! We’d rather die than be your slaves; spending the rest of our lives doing your dirty work!”

The notion of leaving the Program immediately became clear to Shayva, and in a single movement she twisted herself free from her husband. “No, Nev. I’m not leaving. I told you, I like it here.” As she spoke, the Administrator extended a hand, inviting her to join in his indiscretions.

“For this, Shay? You’re willing to trade your life for this?” Nevik was pleading now, though he knew he would not convince her.

“The woman’s spoken, Nevik. Now, be a good boy, take your medicine, and get back to work. I promise, there will be no abstention therapy this time.” Ms. Sindow stroked the urchin’s hair as the girl performed her task.

The Administrator took Shayva’s hand, which had joined the street urchin between the man’s legs. “This one’s been too good to me, and so for her, I will spare you.” Shayva gurgled something in affirmation of the Administrator’s declaration, though it was indiscernible through the sucking and moaning that had engulfed her.

Nevik looked across the room at the mirror concealing the cabinet with the stockpile of propopinol. “Fine. Then I take what’s owed.” He quickly crossed the room, ignoring the indiscretions of his wife and the Administrator, who likewise ignored him. Ruth Sindow, however, watched the young man as he fought to hold onto any shred of dignity he may have had left. “Nevik, I know it seems hard now, but it is for the good of the community. Members cannot reproduce with other Members, or else the offspring would be born addicts. This way, we use the clean seed of the Administrator, ensuring a strong work force for future generations. It is all in the best interest of the Program. If you leave, you will become sick; you will die. No one wants that, Nevik, so please, won’t you stay?” Ms. Sindow unbuttoned her top as she spoke, revealing expensive black lingerie. “We do have other means of compensation.” Nevik paid no attention, as his sex drive had been killed by the rampant dosing provided by the Program.

He collected as many poppers as he could carry; he guessed it would be enough for a month or so. Before he entered the elevator, Nevik turned to his wife, who was being strangled as the Administrator penetrated her mouth while the urchin pleasured her. “Shay, please, I’m leaving now. I want you to come with me.” His wife did not respond.

As the elevator doors closed, Nevik could hear the voice of the Administrator chasing after him. “Don’t worry, my son, she’ll be coming with me, I promise.” The doors closed and the elevator began descending to the street level of the hotel. Nevik could feel tears pooling in his eyes. Without thinking, he brushed away a tear then administered a popper. The instant relief outweighed the doses he had taken over the last week, and he could not help but smile.

The elevator opened, and the cold air of the deserted world had passed into the warm spring air that is easily forgotten during winter. His speeder sat waiting, and after quickly examining the machine, retrieved the key hidden in the magnetic box under the carriage. Nevik jumped on the vehicle, turned the ignition, and revved the engine. Screeching out of the hotel parking lot, the warm sun of the spring morning shined on his face. He did not know where he would go, but he knew what he would do; he would survive. Eventually, he would return to the Program with an army of survivors and tear the place down, brick by brick, addictizen by addictizen. He did not know how he would maintain his sickness once the small stash he had commandeered from the Administrator ran out; it didn’t matter. He knew he had enough at least for today, and tomorrow, well, that’s just some other day.

by: Charlie Crago

                The thickening of space and time always made Alex Travler slightly nauseous. Though he had taken many trips forward and backward in time, his body had never been able to adjust to the jolting effects of dimensional shifts. The displacement tank at the State Tourism Bureau slowly came into focus, and Lex instinctively convulsed as he choked down the oxygenated embryonic fluid, realizing he had made it back safely to his Present, 2222.  The body relaxed; reanimation was almost complete. Technicians busied themselves monitoring the life-functions of the returned time-tourist.

The TransDimensional Docking Station was filled with displacement tanks, all of them retrieving and sending tourists to the farthest reaches of time in the flash of an eye. Technicians input codes to the terminal of the tank, causing embryonic fluid to drain into a grate in the floor. The door resolved from seamless hinges, and a technician opened it, offering his hand to help the tired voyager back into the Pres.

“Thank-you, sir.” Lex took the technician’s hand, and climbed out of the tank, his hands shakily supporting his naked feet as they searched for traction on the slippery walls of the tank. Immediately, the familiar sanitary smell of the Docking Station greeted him, and he knew he was home.

After emerging from the displacement tank, Lex climbed down the staging area of the Docking station, escorted by Bureau officials, dressed in sterile white lab suits, respirators, and rubber boots in order to lessen the chances of contamination during the materialization process. A second round of decontamination treatment ensued, then Lex was dressed and shuttled back to his building in the center of downtown. Back in his apartment, he showered in a vain attempt to wash the lingering smell of cleanser. No matter how much he scrubbed, the smell remained, inescapable.

Lex dressed in his soft cotton sleep-pants before climbing into the warm softness of bed, the excitement of his holiday still bouncing off the walls of his imagination. He could still hear the sound of the Viennese orchestra pounding out the melodies of his favorite opera, Don Giovanni. Lex had spent previous holidays in more recent times, visiting the late 20^th century to experience what was called the “grunge” and “rap” generations. He particularly enjoyed a performance he had seen of three-piece grunge act out of Seattle in the former United States. Although he could not remember the group’s name, he recalled the lead singer and guitarist, a kind of living messiah among his fans, had killed himself shortly after the performance. Lex had promised his wife he would visit a period more renowned for the classic arts, and could not deny the enjoyment he felt witnessing Mozart conduct live.

Of course, Lex Travler was a seasoned time tourist, as was most of the world’s population at the beginning of the 23^rd century. Like most citizens newly acquainted with temporal passage, his first visits had been to the great moments of history: the crucifixion of Christ, the height of the Roman Empire, the renaissance, and so on and so on. Most tourists usually only made these holiday visits once, as they were generally unhappy with what they experienced, though discussion of such things was strictly forbidden under the Temporal Code. Small things, like learning Jesus Christ wasn’t really resurrected, but was an alien, or the fact that Charlemagne was a spoiled sissy ruined the experience of these grandiose moments in time. Instead, most tourists chose to spend their vacations traveling to exciting times in culture, witnessing the day-to-day life of previous generations before returning to the Present, satisfied in their world’s technological achievement.

As the population of earth had grown to epidemic proportions by the mid to late 22^nd century, the entire planet had become mired by humankind’s compulsion to expand outwards, consuming every viable resource as it did. While civilization was comfortably maintained in the cities, virtually all comprehension of unsettled land, the outdoors, and nature had been forgotten. Thus, a great portion of the world’s economic output was spent in support of society at large. No longer could frivolous attempts at the arts be entertained. Music, theatre, painting, sculpture, and most other creative endeavors had been lost to time, and were now only accessible through time-displacement, or what the passengers called Temporal Tourism.

II

Lex’s wife,Wreni, especially enjoyed visiting the dynastic periods of Egypt, marveling at the enormous sculptures crafted from the broken bones of man. She was still gone on holiday when he woke the following morning. Aggravated that he’d have to hydrate breakfast himself, Lex grumbled incomprehensibly to himself as he shuffled through his apartment to the bathroom.

After cleaning himself, Lex sat at the small table in the kitchen, taking turns eating hydrated eggs and bacon while taking small sips of coffee. “InfoCast On, News.” The kitchen wall in front of him crackled with life in response to his voice, then beamed the most recent news reports into his brain. The first story reported on some militant environmentalist group or another. “Boring” he thought to himself. “Next” Lex commanded and the InfoCast switched to a new report.

“Tourists lost in the Phoenician empire, holidays to Byzantium delayed. Contribute to you local Docking Station today and earn credit towards your next trip!” The Japanese voice of the InfoCast would then repeat itself until the next big story broke.  The door handle jiggled, then burst open; Wreni Travler came pouring in through the entrance of the apartment, beaming from her recent holiday.

“Darling!!! I’ve missed you so!” Wreni dropped her temporal-travel kit and rushed to embrace her husband. Apart from containing the items necessary for sustaining life during temporal displacement, the kit also held the items she had collected during her trip. “How was Figaro?”

“Don Giovanni, dear. It was great…he was great.”

“Yeah?And what else? What else did my little Travler the time traveler do on holiday? Did you bring anything back?”Wreni was using her baby-voice. Lex could not stand it when she used that god-awful voice. She knew this but continued to use it anyway – probably because as a whole Lex’s relationship with his wife was one built on condescension; Wreni rarely heeded her husband’s requests or warnings.

“We’re not supposed to do that; it’s strictly forbidden – ‘Observe Only’, remember?” Lex’s eyes remained fixed on the bowl of cereal he was negotiating, though he used one hand to highlight the first rule of temporal tourism. His voice reminded Wreni of that of a schoolmaster, which made her giggle slightly.

“You’re serious? Alex, please, honey,” she laughed mockingly, “you know they don’t enforce that. Why, just look at all these great relics I’ve brought back – they’ll look amazing in the living area.” Wreni had taken a handful of small artifacts carved from clay out of the kit and was displaying them proudly as she spoke to her husband. The sight of the millennia old sculptures frightened Lex, prompting him to jump from his seat at the breakfast table.

“Are you insane, woman? I told you to stop bringing those here!” Lex covered the relics with a napkin. “If they find these here, they’ll send us both back, forever; damn it, Wreni, we’ve gone over this.” His voiced echoed through the house as he searched for his last travel voucher. “You know how much I hate doing this.” Lex returned to the kitchen with his own temporal travel kit. “Now I have to waste my last holiday going back to – where the hell did you get these anyways?” Lex took a moment to inspect the beautifully carved miniature-statue of a cat. His wife smiled at her husband’s satisfaction.

“Egypt, love, you know that. Oh, Alex, I do wish you’d holiday there with me sometime. The art, culture, oh Lex, the pyramids – absolutely amazing.” Wreni was unable to hide the excitement in her voice.

“I know babe, I’d love to see the pyramids – with you. But now I have to use my last voucher to undo the mess you’ve made here.” Lex was carefully placing the relics under the lining of his temporal travel kit. “We can’t risk people finding out about this.”

“Ohhh, Alex…why can’t we keep just one?” His wife was looking upon the last relic with adoration.

“You know why, Wren: if it stays in the Pres, it might cause a flux in the space-time continuum, resulting in gods know what. We can’t do that, and we can’t risk getting caught either.” Lex took the last relic from his wife, cradling it carefully before securing it in his kit. “I’ll schedule my appointment for displacement, try and get out first thing tomorrow.” He looked into his wife’s eyes as she stared back lovingly in to his, “crazy lady, you’ll be the end of me.”

Alex Travler hugged his wife tightly before turning to the scheduling module fixed on the wall of the kitchen. After inserting his last holiday-voucher, he input the destination, Egypt, 1700 BC. The science of space-time displacement had grown significantly in the last 100 years or so, and the temporal-technicians working for the Tourism Bureau had become quite adept at accurately placing tourists in the requested era within a century or two, though precise time and date had yet to be perfected.  Fortunately, the exact space and time placement of the temporal-tourist mattered little in terms of replacing stolen artifacts; as long as relics were returned to generally the same time frame as the one from which they were taken, everything would be fine. Lex breathed a sigh of relief as the scheduler-module confirmed his travel arrangements for the following morning. He turned back to his wife, of which he could now find only her discarded clothes. The silhouette of Wreni’s naked body stood in the doorway of their bedroom.

“The time is now, lover.” Her voice was soft and sweet, filled with desire.

“Indeed it is.” Lex was pulling off his shirt as he moved to take his wife before leaving to smuggle the illegal contraband back into antiquity.

III

                Lex woke the next morning excited for his holiday, even if it was to a destination not of his choosing to perform a task that was considered less-than-legal by the authorities. Breakfast was waiting for him in the kitchen, as was Wreni, dressed only in one of his work-shirts. He kissed his wife before inhaling the meal, then, kissed her again before hurrying out of the apartment to catch the eleven-train at 7:03. “Love you, Wren. See you before too long.” Lex closed the door behind him, carrying the temporal-travel kit with him as he rushed down the stairwell of his building.

Riding the metro to work, he clung tightly to the temporal-kit. Not only it contain the only supplies Lex would be able to access during his journey, but the artifacts concealed within would surely wind him up before the Temporal Courts, or worse, in the hands of black-time markets. The Confederated Governments had never released an official report detailing the size and prevalence of the world’s illegal market for stolen relics of time. Hostile to the Confederated Government, black-time pirates had recently engaged in attacks on temporal-tourists, hijacking temporal-travel kits on several occasions. The kits contained a self-sustained rationing system, which could maintain the life functions of an average human indefinitely, and had been designed of temporal-mesh, the only known man-made material capable of rematerializing after the warping process. Additionally, the temporal-travel kit linked to the neural implant possessed by every tourist, sending a beacon back to their Present, ensuring a safe-return. Many speculated on the pirates’ ability to utilize TransDimensional warping technology, especially without the supremely advanced facilities of the government.  In reality, though, only a minority of educated peoples believed the enterprise to be strictly fiction, while those ‘in the know’ actively disassociated with idea, having probably participated in the trade as either buyer or seller at some point.

Lex had never bought or sold any relics, though he had returned those his wife had appropriated on several occasions. He could not help but wonder what the cache he hid under his arm could potentially bring on the market. Maybe he could quit his job. “No” Lex thought, “couldn’t risk it.” He knew the potential for a pan-dimensional catastrophe that could arise from  moving objects from one Present to another far outweighed the possibility of not having to work again.

The eleven-train pulled to a stop in front of the State Tourism Bureau just before eight, and Lex disembarked with a number of other tourists, all identifiable by the silver dehydration suits they wore in preparation for temporal transport. Each carried a silver temporal-travel kit identical to the others. Lex scanned his temporal-passport across the reader as he reached the front of the queue waiting to enter the building. Beyond the line of waiting tourists, the sound of the TransDimensional Docking Station’s displacement tanks sending and retrieving voyagers through time echoed through the building and out onto the street.  Having confirmed his holiday arrangements, the clear partition blocking the building’s entrance from the world melted in to a seamless port and dissolved, allowing the passengers to enter.

After having his identity and itineraries scrutinized once more, Lex made his way into the staging area of the station; male and female tourists casually disrobed, waiting for Bureau technicians to inspect their bodies for foreign entities and contraband.  The search was quite thorough, but like Alex, everyone seemed too giddy to mind much, as most were familiar with the pre-screening processes involved with temporal tourism.

After being inspected inside and out more than once by both male and female technicians, Alex was led to the displacement tank waiting to transport him into antiquity, taking only the temporal-travel kit with him; any other materials might fuse with the cellular composition of the tourist’s body during reanimation, and so was strictly forbidden. For all he knew, the two techs currently guiding him through the docking station were the same two that had dragged him out days before. Dressed in the same white lab suits, respirators, and rubber boots, it was impossible to say.

The hatch of the displacement tank resolved, as it had before, and the temporal technicians helped LexTravler climb in, then offered the same reminder as always: “Remember, sir, Observe only, DO NOT INTERFERE.” Lex nodded his head in affirmation. The material comprising the tank appeared glassy, but was soft to the touch of his naked feet. Once inside, the technicians input the appropriate combination of commands into the displacement module, and the hatch dissolved, leaving Lex naked and alone inside the tank, save for the time kit. Having finished charting his course through the many dimensions of space and time, the technicians turned to the tank and saluted Lex, wishing him a fond journey. As he returned the salute, one of the technicians mashed a button which glowed bright green. Instantly the tank filled with the embryonic fluid Lex had come to associate with the moments before TransDimensional warping. The sour-taste of the fluid coating the inside of his mouth, his throat, esophagus, and finally his lungs always made him want to purge, though he never had. Finally, the structure of the tank began to spin and twist around itself before disappearing in to a flash of bright, white-hot light.

IV

                The voyage through space and time was never a tangible memory for Lex. After navigating the various dimensions comprising existence, the tourist would be deposited in the appropriate era, then awaken with little or no recollection of the actual trip. Left in the shapeless vacuum of space, the few moments it took for the world to materialize seemed like eternity. Lex waited for the bright light to dim into coherent shapes, and before long, he recognized the world. Deposited on the outskirts of what appeared to be a rather populated city, he surveyed the surrounding desert, and the great monuments towering in the distance. All around him, he sensed the world of old, though it did not sense him.

The trans-dimensional warp placed the tourist in space parallel to that of the known Present, enabling the tourist to observe time without ever actually interfering with it. The temporal-travel kit maintained a stable dimension for the duration of the tourist’s visit, though it could be disengaged in times of emergency. Lex watched as people filed slowly in to a temple yet to be deteriorated by time. For a moment he marveled at the magnificence of the great building, then followed the parishioners as they entered the massive complex, unnoticed by anyone but himself.

Although he could not be detected in his Present temporal dimension, Lex still found himself migrating to the rear of the temple, as he always had when, as a boy, he had gone to worship with his parents. The chanting of the congregation was hypnotic, and he found he very much enjoyed the ancient sound. After a quick listen, Lex opened the kit and removed the hidden contraband from its’ lining. Unsure of where to return the objects, he decided the mantel at the rear of the temple would be as good a place as any, not to mention, the congregation had become focused on the priest at the front of the room. Lex scanned the room one last time for any sign of the temporal police before pulling one of the circuits loose from the kit’s control panel. The sensation of the parallel dimensions melding with one another was smooth, though it retained the same type of sensation as falling. The room of parishioners continued to pray, taking no notice of the time tourist, and so Lex placed the small sculptures on the mantel before kneeling to re-attach the circuitry of the travel kit.

V

                The blinding light of the trans-dimensional warp was unmistakable – Lex was being transported without having hailed his Present. To his knowledge, there was only one instance in which a tourist would be pulled from holiday without having requested so: arrest. Before he could compute this correlation in his mind, the waking world came back into focus, though it was completely formless – just open space. Immediately Lex recognized the silver robes of the men and women looking down on him from a podium that seemed to be constructed from the same material as the travel kit – the Courts of Time.

“Wha…wha…why am I here?” Lex fumbled with the words as he fought to remain calm.

“LexTravler, you have been under investigation for the crime of material displacement for some time now. Surely your arrest comes as no surprise – this isn’t the first time you’ve broken the laws of temporal tourism, is it?” The soft, yet authoritative voice of the woman judge, probably Chief Justice of the Time Courts, made real the magnitude of the situation.

“Material displacement? No, no, no…I’m trying to replace materials that have been previously displaced. You see, my wife always wants to show me the amazing things she’s seeing on her holidays, so occasionally she brings home a relic or two for me. We never keep them…I always bring them back.”

“We are well aware of you and your wife’s actions,” the rest of the judges nodded in affirmation of the Chief Justice’s accusations, “stealing artifacts of time, selling them on the black-time market, and returning whatever you can’t sell to random eras.”

“I assure your honors, this is just a big mistake…we are honest people.” Even as he begged, Lex knew he was lying.

Without any further hesitation or the slightest bit of concern, the Chief Justice delivered her sentence. “LexTravler, due to your repeated violations of the Temporal Penal Code you are condemned to spend the rest of your days wandering the annals of history. Because the severity of your crime has yet to be determined, you will serve the preliminary portion of your sentence in the Bermuda Holding Colony, after which you will be delivered to your final resting time.” Before he could protest, all around him time and space thickened into one, and Lex Travler was again sent spiraling through the circuits of eternity.

VI

                Before he could comprehend where, and when he had been deposited, Lex was being pulled by his arms through a dark, dank corridor. He instantly became aware of the tattered clothes he wore, though the garments were unlike those he was used to. Rather than the sleek, efficient material he had grown accustomed to, he was now wrapped in materials of an obviously organic nature. They smelled. The flashes of light peeking through from the other side of what could only be a prison took a moment to resolve before he could make out the court proceedings occurring in rapid succession. The moaned lamentations of prisoners echoing through the halls was intermittently broken by the sound of a trans-dimensional warping system dropping off and picking up prisoners. The frightened protests of an inmate preparing to serve a terminal sentence were snuffed out as the surgical lab dissected his brain. Lex looked up, straining to make sense of what was happening around him.

“Where am…what is this place?” The words evaporated into the abyss of the dark cell, though one of the two guards stopped pulling long enough to look down at him.

“Bermuda Holding Colony, your trial’s tomorrow morning.” The voice was muffled through the respirator both guards wore as they dragged their prisoner through the prison.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Lex thrashed his arms violently, causing one of the guards to lose his grip, “you can’t do this – I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“That’s for the courts to decide; for now, you’re our charge.” The first guard was very matter-of-fact in his delivery.

“And we’re gonna see that you do as your told until then.” The second guard, from whom Lex had freed his arm, was more hostile in his tone, and smashed his fist into the prisoner’s mouth as he spoke. Lex felt his head bonk against the floor of the prison before his body relaxed. The second guard once again took him by the arm and continued dragging him through the musky corridor.

VII

                As the guards locked the door of the holding cell that would house Lex Travler until his sentence was delivered, the last shred of light was cut from the room. Blackness enveloped the temporal tourist.

“Hey, boy, whatcha in for?” The foreign voice startled Lex, and he quickly turned around. Through the darkness of the cell he couldn’t make out where the voice was coming, though it did not sound like that of a person from his Pres.

“I don’t…I don’t know” Lex pawed at the cold, empty air as he spoke. The sound of a match striking rang through the cell, and suddenly he could see again. After giving his eyes time to focus, Lex made out the outline of a person sitting quietly in the corner of the cell, holding a candle in one hand, and a large mouse in the other. The dark skin of the man reminded Lex of syrup, and reflected beautifully against the light of the candle. Before he could speak, the stranger’s voice again filled the tiny room.

“You don’t know? Come on, mon…you no know?” The stranger laughed.  “Then I guess you innocent bro, probably the only one in dis place.” The stranger continued to laugh loudly as he stroked his pet. Annoyed by the jovial aura of the man, Lex hardened his resolve and took a step closer towards the stranger.

“I am accused of ‘material displacement’ in the first degree, but…”

The stranger interrupted, “But what?  You never entered the present-dimension of dem times you visit? Never took no thing home for da misses? You innocent? Then why you here, boy?”

“My wife has been collecting artifacts from her holidays for years now – I just return them for her.”

“Ohhhhhh,” the stranger let the vowel roll out of his mouth, “then you did mess with dem temporal exchange?”

“No, sir, no – my wife did – I just tried to fix it.”

“None dat gone make no different to dese tieves,” the stranger spit on the floor is disdain, “all dem want is to curb dat population of da Pres – dem no care ‘bout us.” Lex sat on one of the rough and rugged mattresses lying on the floor of the cell as the Stranger continued petting the mouse. “Es all ‘bout dem monies, and dem lands; why you think so many of us here anyway? You thinking we all so dumb we get caught? Member, you here too friend; you fucked too.”

“Wait, I don’t get it…what are you here for?” The Stranger laughed at Lex’s question.

“Been in dis place for some time – abandoned the Pres when me’s just a boy. My Dada was one of the great temporal rogues: fought to live him life in the freedom of the past, away from dems violent overpoplation of the Pres., see?”

“How were you not immediately captured and returned to the Pres?” Lex had never heard of anything as bizarre as wanting to live in the past.

“Well I here, aren’t I?” The Stranger tapped at his own head. “It’s up here, boy. This is how they track us…but ol Dada, he knew how to fix it…kind of.”

“You tampered with your neural implant? No wonder you’re locked up.”

“Of course me tampered with it…don’t want dem awful time-cops telling I when I can go where. So, before Dada die, him fix up dat chip; now dem fools have to work to find me.”

“You mean you were able to stop the dimensional transmissions of the implant? How’d they get you then?

“More like alter, not stop, dem transmissions. Eventually, if dem want you, dem takes you, see?” The Stranger gestured to the tiny cell, then continued to stroke his pet. “Now Wally is mine only friend…and you. Say, where dem sending yous anyways, huh? You know?”

“I’m waiting…they haven’t decided yet.” Lex’s voice was sad as he realized he would probably never see Wreni again.

“Oh no, boy, dats not goode…dat’s really no goode – If dem not sure what to do with you, dem send you back to the most terrible of times , rife with lawlessness and disease – no place you wanna be, boy.”

“Shit, whaddya mean? I’m gonna be sentenced to a time where I’ll surely die? No, no, no…I’ll have a definitive sentence, with an expiration date.”

“Think so, boy? I’s been here for longer than I’s knows, and me ain’t never seen no body go back to the Pres.; they always come back here…or what’s left of ‘em. I’s think maybe you want I fix your chip for you, no?” The Stranger’s deep island accent bounced off the walls of the cell. “Or you can see what dem courts have for you.”

Lex paused a moment before responding, unsure of what the Stranger was offering. “What do you mean, brain surgery? In here? It’s practically pitch-black. What…are you going to operate by candlelight?”

“But of course…how else you think I can fix that ting in yous head?”

“No, no, no…there has to be another way. I’ll appeal”

The Stranger let loose a booming laugh. “Hah! Appeals – there taint no such thing, boy. Once your gone, you gone for goode, until the end – only then dem bring you home. Say yous got dead on holiday some ways or nothers.” Just as the Stranger finished speaking, the sound of the surgical lab engaging lasers muted the screams of another restrained tourist. “See, dis it, boy, all of it. Aint no gone home for yous – it’s either me or dem…but no home.” The sound of approaching footsteps caught the Stranger’s attention, causing him to snuff the candle’s flame. “Quite, boy, dem’s coming now.” The shadow of the approaching figure appeared in the tiny crack under the cell door, followed by the sound of the peephole sliding open, allowing the artificial light of the prison to pierce the darkness of the tiny room.

“Travler, Alex Jones…”

“Yes, that’s me…I’m Alex Travler…” his voice interrupted the prison official who ignored the prisoner and continued speaking.

“For the crime of wanton material displacement, a crime to which you have confessed, under the confederated penal code the Temporal Courts have decreed you spend the remaining duration of your sentence in the Present of the years 10,000-15,000BC. Upon successful temporal rehabilitation, to be completed under the supervision of sanctioned custodians of time, you will be eligible for parole, and may be granted a return to your original Pres.”

“Wait! For how long? I want an appeal!  How long till I can go home?! I want an appeal!!”Lex’s voice crashed against the cell door as the prison official closed the peephole, returning the room to darkness.

“See, boy? Taint no gone home for yous…yous only gone one place, where dem sends you.” The Stranger struck another match against the wall of the cell and relit the candle. By the meager candlelight, the Stranger revealed a small, circular device camouflaged in the palm of his hand . “I tinks this be your only option, blood. I tinks you should take it.” The device, which was no more than two inches in diameter, one side shiny, the other opaque, seemed to separate from his hand, becoming its’ own entity.

“What is it anyway? And why are you helping me?” Lex examined the device held by the strangers midnight-black hands, who smiled in anticipation of the newcomer’s reaction.

“Magnetic Interference, boy…makes dem homing beacon act up real goode so dems can’t find you so easy… dem won’t know till dem try and locate yous.” The Stranger offered the device to Lex for inspection.

“How does it get me home?” Lex examined the tiny disc-shaped device as he spoke.

“Home? Home, boy? Yous got no home now, you don’t know? Best ask yoself – dems time or mines? Tat’s yo only choice.”

Lex looked up at the Stranger, “Choice? That’s not a choice, that’s the lesser of two evils. Besides, you’re here, right? So obviously this thing doesn’t work anyway” then handed the device back.

The Stranger remained calm, unwilling to engage in argument. “Dat’s fine, boy. Just relax, wait for dems to come get you, and enjoy holiday, right? Sounds good.” He struck a third match and lit a self-rolled cigarette. “Yous right, I’s here…but not cause dis ting don’t work,” the Stranger took the device back from Lex, “dems people in the Pres can’t track you after your first warp, but dat trans-dimensional state taint stable, so every twelve hours or so, you autowarp, to where, none bodies knows, not the yous, not dems, not the Pres…none bodies.” The Stranger leaned back against the wall of the cell, puffing on the cigarette. The familiar smell of tobacco tickled Lex’s nose; he hadn’t smelled a cigarette since they were banned sometime during his teenage years.

“Alright, let’s do it.” Lex stood as he spoke, hoping to indicate his readiness. The Stranger followed suit and also stood, offering the cigarette to the other prisoner.

“Good, boy, now you’s ready.” Lex accepted the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and proceeded to cough violently.

“T’aime?” The tone of the Stranger’s voice did little to hide his obvious amusement. Lex took a moment to compose himself before answering.

“Where did you get this?”

Unsure whether Lex was referring to the cigarette or the Magnetic Interference device, the Stranger answered cautiously. “Two doors down, him got green, too.”

“The device, where’d you get the device?”Lex inhaled on the cigarette and coughed again, though less violently than before.

“I tolds you: I done traveled through more time than I done spent in my own Pres; shit, I’s done even know when I’m from no more. In dems future, it’s all pretty lites and ha-ha, bling-bling, boom-boom. Peoples needed some ways to protect demselves; call it a personal protection device, PPD. Meant to conceal dat user’s local from dem prying eyes of dat future.” The footsteps of the returning Prison Warden suddenly became faintly audible. “Hurry, boy, taint got no time.” The Stranger leapt to onto Lex from where he stood, forcing the two men onto the floor of the cell. The cigarette still burned in Lex’s mouth as he fought to free himself from the Stranger’s grip. “Relax, boy, just relax.” The footsteps of the Warden grew louder as the Stranger pressed the bronze disc against Lex’s left temple. “Dis won’t hurt none.” Instantly the PPD sent a surge of what felt like electricity through Lex’s brain, short-circuiting the neural implant. The sensation was not painful, but was certainly not pleasant either.

The door of the cell burst open and guards filled the tiny space, pulling the Stranger off ofLex, but not before the bronze disc melted back into the man’s palm. “Damnit, Marquis, we told you not mess with the recruits” one of the guards was saying as another pummeled the Stranger.

As he was dragged out of the cell, the Stranger called after Lex. “Hey, boy, enjoy yous holiday, yeah?” His deep laughter echoed through the prison and the image of the man called Marquis being brutally assaulted was burnt into Lex’s mind as he was hauled away by gurney to the Bermuda Holding Colony’s staging center.

VIII

                After being stripped out of his prison rags at the staging area, LexTravler was wheeled to the Docking Station of the Penal Colony, where another panel awaited him. The judges sat quietly, unmoved by the justice being delved out all around them. The Chief Justice of this panel was not the same as before; though female, this Justice was far younger, a fact Lex could not help but notice, even in the midst of his fear. The aloofness of the panel frightened him; he had never imagined anyone could be so casual about handing out criminal sentences. The booming of the displacement tanks was underscored by the frantic pleas of the prisoners protesting the judgement of the courts.  The guards raised the gurney to a sitting-position so that he could look his accusers in the eye.

“Travler, Alex Jones – you have been brought to the Bermuda Holding Colony to await your sentence.” The other judges looked to the Chief Justice, nodding in agreement. “At this moment, the Temporal Courts are prepared to divulge your sentence, to be carried out at once: for the crimes of flagrant disregard for the laws of temporal displacement, temporal interference, and contributing to the black-time market, you are sentenced to the Present of the year 10,000 BC. There you will learn of the violent legacy that is mankind’s, and in turn, will come to appreciate the former life which you have forsaken.” The Chief Justice looked to her counterparts, who again nodded in affirmation. “Do you have anything to say before the sentence is carried out?”

Lex was able to collect himself and immediately cried out. “Yes – how long? How long till I can come back…till I can see my wife?” His body fought against the restraints of the gurney as he tried to stand.

“How long?” The voice of the Chief Justice was mocking. “How long? Mr. Travler, you are accused of crimes most heinous – if I were you I would be less concerned with your return date and more so with survival.”

“But no, you can’t…I’m a citizen of the Confederated Government…you can’t do this… the government won’t allow it. My wife – Wreni – she’ll come looking for me…I want an appeal!” Lex pled with the panel, hoping to strike a chord of sympathy with one of its members.

“Oh, but we can, Mr. Travler.” The Chief Justice glared at him, unforgiving. “And we will. And as for your wife – she’s to be tried and sentenced as well, immediately. The time is now, Mr. Travler.”

The guards detached the restraints binding Lex to the gurney, securing him by his arms and legs. Though he fought to free himself from their grip, the guards were too well trained to let their charge escape. Once the restraints had been removed, Lex’s naked body was hoisted into the displacement tank, the hatch sealed before he could argue. As he pounded on the walls of the tank, the embryonic fluid he usually equated with holiday travel began filling up the space around him. The panel of judges ignored his muted screams as the next prisoner was brought before them, a bruised and battered Marquis. Just before the blinding white light of trans-dimensional warp engulfed him, Lex observed the guards force Marquis to his knees, and then everything was gone.

IX

                As the world once again resolved around him, Lex Travler felt the familiar air of the Present world tickling his face. The sensation was brisk, intimating the first snow of the season. Suddenly, the pounding of hoof against earth shook his body, causing Lex to instinctively jump to his feet. All around him people covered in animal skins rushed past, chased by enormous creatures covered in matted fur. Warriors armed with spears and arrows hurried past, pushing Lex out of the way as they sought cover. A young warrior carrying a spear twice her length struck Lex with her shoulder, knocking him to the ground as she ran for the shelter of the caves in the distance. The girl stopped, crouching behind a boulder.

“You there, man, what are you doing here? When are you from?” The girl’s voice took on an accent Lex could not place.

“Lila, keep moving. He’s not our concern.” The deep voice came from above, where a man stood on a large rock, watching the events unfolding below him.

The girl looked to the man, then back to the Lex. “No Father – perhaps he knows something – we must help him.”

“He knows nothing, not even when he his.” The old man’s voice was lost on the girl as she hurried into the commotion of the stampede. Lex tried to stand, but could not; a long wooden arrow had pierced and partially passed through his outer leg. A stampeding mammoth charged directly towards him, though he could not react. Until this moment Lex had only known of the great mammals through the vid-books he borrowed from the Confederate library.

The girl reached Lex as dirt swirled all around them. After quickly examining his wound, the girl grabbed the arrow and snapped it in two. “It’s just a flesh wound. Where are your clothes?” The girl’s voice hinted to some gag of the old world, completely lost to time and to Alex Travler – all he could think of was his naked body. After pushing the intruding half of the arrow through his leg, the girl helped Lex hobble to the safety of the caves. “When did you come from? I’m Lila” The girl’s stern voice was hard to differentiate from the danger spreading around them.

“I dunno, I just woke up here – I don’t even know where here is.” Lex could not understand why he had lied. The chaos of the hunt died down as they reached the safety of the caves.

“He knows – he’s a temporal transgressor – that’s the only reason they’d put someone like him here.” The voice of Lila’s father followed them into the cave. “Why else would he be naked? There’s no way a man could survive out there dressed like that.” The old man looked Lex’s bleeding body up and down. “So, what’d you do?”

Lex surveyed the cave as he sat as the place designated by to him by Lila. Remarkable drawings covered the walls of the cave, though unlike any he had seen in the vid-books – these illustrations were not crude but quite were quite refined, the vibrant colors almost leaping out. Then he realized he was being addressed in his native-language. “Wait, how do know how to speak…”

The old man interrupted him. “We’ve all been sent here as punishment; to the beginning of civilization. This is the civilized justice system of the future hard at work.”

Lex looked around the cave and noticed the very modern features of the men and women living there. The large foreheads and protruding jaws found commonly in the remains of humankind’s ancestors were absent. Rather, these people looked like him. “I don’t understand…where are all the cavemen?” His comment elicited a round of laughter from those in attendance.

“We’re it…we’re the first men, and women.” The voice of the old man had become soothing, like that of a school teacher. “What’s your name, future boy?”
“Alex…Alex Travler. What about fossils?”

“Good to meet you, Alex” the old man energetically shook Lex’s hand, “Fossils don’t lie, friend, but stories do. Are there other, less evolved humanoids in this Present? Sure. Would they accomplish anything without our guidance? Not so sure…” The cave erupted into another round of laughter.

“Then what? You’re all from my Present? Sent here to die?” Lex struggled to make sense of the situation.

“Alex, my boy, you must understand: the Present is wherever your consciousness resides, regardless of the actual year. For now, your Present is here, with us.” Lila attended to Lex’s wounds as her father spoke. “We’re not all from your origin; some of us were born many years after you, and know the name Lex Travler. And although, yes, we were sent here to die, we will not.” The old man’s voice began to rise as excitement filled the cave. The light of the single fire illuminated the face of the old man, highlighting his battle-weary features as he spoke. “For lifetimes we have waited for a messenger from the future to be returned to us; now he has come. I, Josephus of the Rutufe clan, was sent here personally by the Emir of 2360 to await his arrival. Now, Alex Travler has come, and with him, the possibility of return for all of us.”

The hushed grumbles of the clan confirmed Josephus’ declaration, which struck more fear into Lex’s heart. “Wait, what? Now you’ve been expecting me? How’s that?”

Lila’s voice became soft as she answered his queries. “The Confederated Governments continued to send expired citizens to Crumbled Ages long after your sentence. Gradually, the tales of your exploits reached our origin. My father was sent here to guide you back so that you may eventually retrieve us all.” Josephus nodded to his daughter in agreement.

“Crumbled Ages? You’ve got to be kidding me; I’ve been sent to a temporal colony for the insane. How can I possibly get back?”

“You met our man inside, Marquis de Dase, did you not?” Lex nodded in response to Josephus’ question. “Then surely he modified your implant, did he not?”

Lex touched his head as he strained to remember the encounter than seemed to have taken place lifetimes earlier. “I did meet him, and he did something to me – though it obviously didn’t work, did it?”

“You misunderstand, boy: Marquis created in you a Temporal Tourist that cannot be controlled. When the Temporal Courts seek to locate you, which they do to all prisoners every twelve hours to ensure no dimensional contamination has taken place, you will be automatically warped to another holding Present. Now, unfortunately, no one can control where, or when you’ll be warped to, though we are sure that you eventually return to your origin.” Josephus’ voice was full of hope, content in the belief of a future already written.

“How can you be so sure?” Lex’s voice pinched slightly as Lila finished bandaging his wound.

“Because you’re here, Alex Travler, just as the legends said you would be.” A slight smile etched its’ way onto Josephus’ face. Lila collected the dried animal hides she had used as dressings and joined the group of women engaged in quasi-domestic chores. Lex’s eyes followed her through the cave before realizing the gaze of the girl’s father was locked onto him.

“You will help us, Alex, won’t you?” Though phrased as a question, it was clear that the leader of the Rufute clan was not asking.

“I will do what I can, of course, sir. And thank you for your hospitatlity, without which I would surely have succumbed to the harsh environments of this Present.” Lex smiled at his host before accepting the wine-filled animal bladder the old man offered him.

“Your death serves no one; it is by your actions that salvation will be visited upon all of us.” Though he did not understand the words of his host, Lex lowered his head in submission before taking the first of many long slugs off the wine bladder. Primitive drum beats and raw meat filled the confines of the cave as the Rufute  clan celebrated the hunt and the arrival of their messiah.

By the time Lex had finished imagining and re-imagining  his future exploits with his hosts, the fire burning in the cave had died out to little more than a smoldering heap of ash, as most of the clan had assumed their various places of sleep after the large meal of mammoth meat. Lex, now clothed in the hides of his clan’s people looked around the dark cave for a place to rest his tired body. As his eyes moved through the quickly diminishing light of the near-extinguished fire, they locked with those of Lila, who sat alone in a deserted corner of the cave.

“Come, Travler man, you may bed with me.” Lila held the fur of her bed open, inviting Lex to join her.

Although his subconscious-self immediately moved to join her, his conscious-mind fought in vain to protest. “I’m…I’m married…I should…”

“In your origin, you are married. In this Present, you are but a man, alone in the wilderness but for the companionship of your clan. Come, let us take solace in one another’s embrace.” By the time she had finished speaking, Lex had already removed his animal skins and was working his body into the furs next to Lila’s. The fire finally burnt itself out, its light replaced by the anonymous moans of the Rufute people striving to populate the world of the future.

Artwork by Rush Bourque (c) 2011

For many, the wilderness areas of the southwest are easily the finest selling points the region has to offer. Unfortunately, with the ever-growing population of the world, these undeveloped havens for wildlife are rapidly being encroached upon, threatening the delicate balance of these area’s ecosystems. In “Stories of Wolves”, German-American filmmaker Elke Duerr shines light on the subject of one of the most precious resources of the southwest, the Mexican Gray Wolf. The film is quite informative and entertaining, though at times heartbreaking. It seems appropriate that anyone residing in the southwest should view this documentary, as it serves as a wake-up call for anyone even remotely concerned with the well-being of endangered species in New Mexico, Arizona, and northern Mexico.

The very real sense of humankind’s destruction of the earth is palpable from the first frames of the film, as Ms. Duerr does an outstandingly effective job of bringing the severity of the Mexican Gray Wolf situation to life through combinations of graphic imagery and statistical data. Culling from a staggering pool of minds ‘in-the-know’, the story of the Mexican Gray Wolf is told through a variety of first-hand accounts, ranging from conservationists and concerned citizens to wildlife rangers and ranchers. “Stories of Wolves’ does a very tactful job of laying out the plight of the Gray Wolf in just a few sentences early in the film, then drives the message home using in-depth accounts of the dire affects the absence of the Mexican Gray Wolf has had on the natural ecology of the southwest; it’s quite good.

Ms. Duerr worked as director, writer, camera-operator, and editor for ‘Stories of Wolves”, while also contributing nearly five years of her life to the project. She has developed Wild Wolf Films and the Web of Life Foundation as a result of her continued dedication to the fragile ecosystem we all share. There will be a screening of “Stories of Wolves: The Lobo Returns” at the Open Space Visitor Center at 6500 Coors Blvd NW, Friday, Nov. 18th at 6PM. You can learn more about the conservationist efforts of Elke Duerr through: wildwolffilm.com and weboflifefoundation.net

It seems appropriate to point out that the film is silent. Yes! Silent….well, almost. If it were possible to ignore the incredible freestyle jazz improvisitions of Nakatani and Wilkerson, then it would be silent…but that is not the case. With Nakatani taking on most of the percussion duties handled by the duo, and Wilkerson managing primarily wood instruments, Sanguivorous begins as a face-melting free-form jazz show as good as any out there, and doesn’t stop until the lights come back on. What makes this production stand out from other improv musical acts is the fact that in this case, the score serves not only as a soundtrack, but also to hightlight the emotional spectrum of the actors, using ambient sound to direct the viewer into fits of fear. It’s awesome.

It should also be noted that the selection and use of instruments in Sanguivorous was anything but traditional; when asked how many total pieces of musical instruments the duo used throughout the course of the show, neither Nakatani or Wilkerson would venture a guess – too many to count. The show began with Nakatani using a bow on large gongs, creating a kind of creepy, buzzing sound which filled the always intimate auditorium of downtown Albuquerque’s Kimo Theatre. Meanwhile, Wilkerson kept the tempo at a chilling pace using a didgeridoo, lending to the impression that we were all alone, haunted by spectral specters, no one but ourselves to save us. A faint red light loomed over the stage; anticipation raced through the audience unlike any typical night-out at the movies. What the hell was going on here? Had we been summoned to serve as fodder for the undead? Was it true, did wily spirits run amok through the halls of the Kimo? And the film hadn’t even begun yet, though there were definitely one or two zombies in attendance.

When the bright light from the projector filled the room, reminding the audience that there was to be some visual stimulus to accompany the musicians and that this was indeed a horror movie screening, a second wave of excitement spilled throughout the crowd. How rad! After a lifetime of the same movie theatre experience consisting of popcorn, soda, and spoon-fed cheap thrills, it was truly enjoyable to take in a film using only the live-jazz accompaniment of Nakatani and Wilkerson to tell the story. Additionally, Ko Murobushi (as the pseudo-prince-of-darkness) lends an excellent performance to the film, which was originally entitled “Kyuketsu” and was voiced in Japanese with English subtitles. As the blood-sucking leader of an Osakan vampire cult, Mr. Murobushi incorporates his mastery of the butoh dance style into his role, and is actually quite disturbing, making for some of the most memorable imagery in the entire picture. It’s superfluous to include a synopsis of the plot, as it is sufficient to say it is a vampire movie. It’s also superfluous to use the word “superfluous”.

What is more important than the story of the film is the presentation of the medium. Though motion-picture originated as a silent art-form, accompanied only by live orchestra to serve as a guiding score to the subtitled dialogue, the way in which Sanguivorous melds the mediums of film and music feels completely new. The live presentation is completely immersing, raising the tension level of the audience through dynamic musical changes timed to coincide with striking imagery from the film. In an age of rampant media piracy, It is probable that this will become a preferred format for viewing film, as it places more emphasis on live attendance – viewing this at home would be great, but as most of the orchestration is improvised, there is truly something to be said for having been there.

Check out TidePoint Pictures for copies of the performance, as well as other avant-garde Japanese horror offerings.

Tatsuya Nakatani photo (c) John Whiting

a short-story

by charlie crago.

I

     As the seal of the cryosul broke, allowing the outside atmosphere to penetrate its’ airless vacuum, a small popping-sound was made, causing Gif Townsend II to awake from what felt like an eternal slumber. Gif opened his tired eyes, rubbing the sleep from them while yawning a long, cumbersome yawn, full of half-dreams and forgotten memories, waiting to be excised into the world of the living.

Laying on his back in the cryosul, naked but for the barrage of tubing going in and out of his body, Gif stopped to consider the endless procession of parties, anniversaries, and other assorted social events which defined his life. The lid of the cryosul opened, the figure of a young Latina dominating the sterile confines of the bedroom reminded Gif of his own nakedness. He smiled at the young girl, suggesting lewd acts of debauchery with lips smacking of entitlement. Familiar with the routine, the young nurse merely rolled her eyes, continuing to take stock of the body’s recovery following cryorphous. The pounding in his head suddenly became painful evident, to which Gif responded with slow, small, circular rubs.

“Headaches seem to be getting worse every time I go down.” His voice was scorched and strained from the long period of cryorphous he had just awoken from. The neural-monitoring pin was still embedded into Gif’s temple, his groggy hands feebly trying to remove it.

“I’ll get that.” The Latina nurse quickly yanked the pin from Gif’s head.

“Damnit!” Gif shouted as he winced in pain. “How many days?”

“180.” Satisfied that the Legacy’s vital functions were stable, the nurse left Gif alone in his bedroom to dress himself.

As his feet touched the cold, sterile floor of his apartment’s cryochamber, Gif became increasingly aware of the mild pain emanating from the back of his head. He reflexively reached his right hand to the source of the pain, while steadying himself with his left on the cryosul, touching his head softly. Detecting a small lump on the back of his skull, near his brain stem, Gif assumed it was a collection of blood caused by lying in the same position for extended periods of time. Although the cryosul was supposed to rotate the user to compensate for instances such as clotting, Gif assumed this was the cause, and ate a couple more pain-killers before showering his dirty body off.

II

     Standing before the massive window of his penthouse, Gif alternately inspected the Sao Paulo cityscape and his perfectly pressed tuxedo.  The city looked good, as did he, and Gif knew it. As he gazed into his own eyes, reflected in the toes of his polished shoes, the sound of the ocean crashing in the background echoed through the room.  Throughout the penthouse framed pictures of various events, every one of them generally depicting the same group of people engaged in some form of group peer-bonding, were displayed on every viable surface . The sound of the limousine pulling into the driveway broke Gif’s concentration, and he turned, facing the great expanse of his living quarters. His father, Gif Sr., had conducted the first successful tests in the field of cryorphous, and had designed the first cryosul to be marketed to the general public, and in the process, had generated massive wealth for his family.  Gif briefly thought of his father being dragged away by the civil police as he left his apartment, then filed the idea away deep into the recesses of his memory.  The CP rarely, if ever, interfered with Legacies these days.

“Lights.” Gif’s command caused the halo-sensors in the apartment to dim, leaving only the sound of the crashing waves on the beach to animate the room.

III

     Inside the limousine, Gif treated himself to a glass of gourmet Cana, one of the many products that had contributed to the great wealth and stability of Brazil in the late 21^st century. He then pressed his thumb onto a flat sensor on the door of the vehicle, which drew a tiny sample of his blood. After confirming his identity as Citizen First Class – Legacy, the sensor glowed green. A tiny compartment opened on the mini-bar revealing a suitable amount of cocaine, another one of the great contributing economic powerhouses of Sao Paulo. After one or two toots, Gif sat back and imagined the evening to come, while the cityscape flashed past the windows of the limousine. It was to be an appointment ceremony for one of Gif’s childhood friends, Mick Taylor, who had just finished studying at the Medical University of the Confederated World Governments – Florianopolis. Dr. Taylor had finished his studies with a medical degree in dream-morphology, the study of changing dream-states, a continuation of Gif Sr.’s work. Mick was a Citizen Second Class, and although he had not been entitled to the extravagant lifestyle Gif had come to know, the two had remained friends throughout lifetimes separated by studies and cryorphous. Gif then realized he had not seen Mick in more than a year, as his last waking-period had been spent in Kobe, Japan, at some birthday party, or such…he couldn’t remember.

Gif’s thoughts then turned to Cheri Trust, his assigned life-mate. Cheri, though frighteningly beautiful, was also a Legacy, and spent her waking-periods juggling parties, drugs, and men. The thought of her laughter grated through Gif’s mind, causing him to shudder at the thought of another tryst with the woman he could not stand, but could not avoid.

“833 Riders Club – we’re here, sir.” The driver’s voice was all business, penetrating the rear of the limousine as Gif snorted one last bump before entering the party.

“Thanks, driver. Pick-up at…”

The driver finished Gif’s sentence for him, “Pick-up whenever you’re finished, Mr. Townsend.” Gif exited the vehicle, making his way up the long path to the enormous estate of Victor Machinal.

IV

  Victor Machinal had won a landslide victory in the Brazilian presidential elections of 2176, and had presided over the country for the last twenty years. Machinal’s campaign had been centered on a platform advocating Entitlement Breaks which guaranteed cryorphous for all those who qualified.  EB’s were distributed amongst the upper-echelon of society as a kind of reward for attaining such high social-standing, and many First-Class citizens had spent the majority of their lives in cryorphous, waking every year or so for important social gatherings. Mr. Machinal was among the first to submit to the cryorphous program, under Gif’s father, turning over the everyday operations of the Presidency to his Interior Minister, Paul Desantos. Like Dr. Taylor, Mr. Desantos was a Second-Class citizen, and was expected to spend his entire life hard at work, contributing to the greater good of society at large.

     As Gif floated past the various party-goers littering the ornate lawn of Mr. Machinal’s villa, it was not hard for him to pick the First-Class citizens out from among the lower ranking citizens of Sao Paulo. Two drunken girls, beautiful, probably the daughters of Legacies, helped to hold one another’s hair while the other vomited in the finely shaped shrubbery. “How fun” Gif thought to himself, casually strolling over to the girls.

Placing his hands on the lower back of each girl, Gif asked, “Is everything OK here, ladies?” The insinuation of adulthood caused the more sober of the two girls to giggle as she stared deep into Gif’s eyes. Sensing the invitation, Gif let his hand slide into the girl’s dress, feeling her naked ass divided by only a thin piece of fabric. The girl smiled at Gif, then took her friend’s hand, who had stopped vomiting long enough to notice his attractive features, and placed it on Gif’s crotch. The second girl was instantly aware of Gif’s growing erection, and she assumed a position on her knees, prepared to take him entirely into her mouth. The first girl smiled approvingly, leaning in for a kiss as Gif let his hand explore her nether-regions.

“Gif Townsend, what the fuck are you doing!?” The caustic and mocking tone of Cheri’s voice instantly killed the mood, and Gif turned to face his arranged-love, replacing his cock as he moved from the girl on her knees, leaving her alone on the lawn with her hand between her legs, the other girl’s breasts still exposed from Gif’s explorative hands.

“Hey Cher, I was looking for you.” He was obviously lying, though it made no difference. Casual sex was expected of Legacies, and no one enforced or expected any semblance of monogamy to prevail in 2197.

“I can see you were looking, just not for me.” Cheri pushed the kneeling girl onto her butt as she reached Gif, eliciting the awful laugh he had come to loathe over the course of his life. The girl, unable to catch herself from falling, as her right hand was still embedded deep in her panties, struggled to get up, but was too intoxicated to do so. Her friend reached to help her up, but was stopped by Cheri. “Don’t you touch her,” she splashed champagne everywhere as she screeched at the girls, “I want to watch her finish, right here, in front of everyone.”

“Leave ‘em alone, Cher, they’re just kids.”

“Then what does that make you?” Cheri took a blast off her cocaine-inhaler as she spoke.

Noticing her unstrapped bra through her backless dress, Gif realized he was no more guilty than she. “And who were you fucking tonight?” Gif fingered the unhooked bra-strap as he spoke.

Cheri’s attention switched from the masturbating girls on the Mr. Machinal’s front lawn to her husband-to-be, aware that regardless of whom each of them chose to fool around with, ultimately they’d have to settle for each other. “Oh, Gif, always so concerned about my well-being. Do not worry, my darling, just some boy, about the same age as these two.” Cheri indicated the girls with her champagne glass.  “It doesn’t matter,” she cupped his bulge with her other hand, sensing its’ partial arousal from the fallacio he’d received moments earlier, “does it?” Cheri kissed his neck as she rubbed his crotch.

Unimpressed by her drunken antics, Gif removed her hand from his pants, and then carefully took a step back. “Not now, Cher, I need to see Machinal before we get too deep. I’ve been having problems with my cryosul.”

“I haven’t seen Victor, but Mick’s looking for you.” Cheri looked down at the bulge lingering behind Gif’s zipper, biting her lip in anticipation, “Then later?” The look in her eyes told Gif she’d probably screw half-a-dozen men and probably one or two women between now and ‘later’, though he did not care. He was tired of Cheri, her perfect body, her spoiled sensibilities.

“Of course later, sweetheart. Now, go find us a young couple to tie-up.” Cheri’s eyes lit-up at the thought of kidnapping a teenage-couple of third-class citizenship. She knew no one would ever look for them, which meant she and Gif could do whatever they wanted to them. She hurried away, bumping into sober government officials as she bounced her ass and tits here and there. Her obnoxious laugh gradually grew softer until it no longer stabbed at Gif’s eardrums. “Thank-god” he muttered to himself as he climbed the steep slope into the foyer of the house.

V

     While inebriated Legacies laughed loudly, danced horribly, and drugged and drank the night away in the more lively rooms of Victor Machinal’s home, the Second-Class citizens of Sao Paulo discussed the future of the city in the darker rooms deeper in the house while sipping Brandy and smoking cigars. Gif, after doing more cocaine and shots with other Legacy alumni, made his way into the meeting room, and was greeted by Mick Taylor, who was dressed in the official uniform of government employees, essentially a military uniform.

“So, all growed-up then, Mick? Fine job, amigo, fine job.” The two toasted one another as Gif poured and re-poured Cana shots for them.

“The Confederated Government has taken me on to continue my dream-morphology research at the institute here in Sao Paulo, so I guess I’ll be seeing a lot more of your ugly-mug.”Gif clanked his glass against Mick’s in affirmation of the revelation, sucking down the cold alcohol while displaying only the slightest look of disgust.

“That’s great. I’ll include all your events on my waking schedule. That reminds me, have you seen Machinal around, I need to discuss some cryosul issues with him.” Gif poured a small bump of cocaine onto his hand, then snorted it, before offering the same to Dr. Taylor.

“You know we can’t do that shit – it’s reserved for Legacies only.” Mick looked around the room nervously at the anonymous faces of military and government officials pretending not to listen to them. “Put it away, I get scanned every day, and you know it’ll detect even a micro-spec of that shit if it even gets on my skin. Put it away.”

Gif obliged his friend, though took the opportunity to chastise his well-founded concerns. “Suit yourself, brother, but that scanner’s bullshit. If they want to find something, they’ll find something. Until then, you’re fine. C’mon, let’s go find me a little piece to suck on.” Gif replaced the snuff-box in the breast-pocket of his tuxedo, and then began to lead the other man away from the boring musings of the politicians, and into the festive arena of the Legacies.

Mick stopped, grabbing Gif by the shoulder as they exited the room. “I can’t go, Gif. My place is here; we have a society to run.”

Gif looked at his oldest friend, realizing he was right. Mick Taylor was always right – that’s why he had finished at the top of his class at the Florianopolis Medical Center.  “OK, friend, I’ll catch you on my way out. What about Machinal?”

Mick paused before answering, his face covered with the look Gif had learned as a child to interpret as the harbinger of bad news. “Listen, Gif, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you; Victor Machinal was killed in an illegal drugs raid this morning at his home, an unnamed accomplice made it out. He was selling the stuff, Gif, outside of governmental parameters.”

The news made Gif’s body instantly shudder as a result of his own cocaine-high. “What…why would he do that? He’s Legacy, he doesn’t have to pay for anything, certainly not drugs. Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, G, but I’m sorry. I do know how close you two were after your father died, though.”

The voice of a senior military officer interrupted Mick, “Dr. Taylor, you’re needed here immediately.”

Mick turned his head to address the officer, “Yes, sir. Immediately”, then turned back to his friend. “Look, Gif, I have to go. Try not to think about Machinal; have fun. Go find Cheri and do something the rest of us can only dream about. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Mick returned to the murmurs of the politicians, leaving Gif standing alone in the doorway of the room. The squeals of girls and boys could be heard from the other side of the house, but were unable to distract Gif’s train of thought. As he roamed through the house like a zombie, he took little notice of the numerous acts of debauchery taking place all around him. The few Legacies that did notice his somber mood simply assumed Gif was lost in some narcotic trance, which was known to happen. All he could think about was how the night had been ruined. Gif hated bad news; that was one of the great advantages to cryorpheous – it really limited the amount of news, good or bad, a person had to take-in. The doorway of the house became recognizable through what was quickly becoming an orgy, and Gif pushed his way through the pawing hands of the men, women, boys, and girls that had devolved into a squirming mass of sex and drugs.

VI

     Back on the lawn of Victor Machinal’s villa, Gif stood and stared towards downtown Sao Paulo; the limousine had been summoned and would arrive any minute. The two young girls who had earlier been so intent on the party had passed-out in a half-naked mass of drunken sleep. Gif stood and stared at the sleeping girls, there dresses hitched up above their waists and below their shoulders. It looked good and for a moment Gif considered taking them home so as to perpetrate unthinkable acts of sexual deviancy on their young, supple bodies. Once again, though, Cheri Trust’s screeching voice interrupted him.

“Gif, where the fuck are you going? I’m not ready yet.” Cheri was fumbling out of the house, pulling her dress up over her slender arms. As Gif had expected, she had not been able to wait for ‘later’.

“I’m going home, Cher. You stay here, do what you do.” The sound of flashbulbs going off near the bottom of the driveway momentarily caught his attention as he spoke. “They arrested Victor.”

Cheri feigned indifference, though it was clear she had already been informed of Machinal’s misdeeds, and had taken time to come to terms with it. “So what? One less rich fuck, right?”

The despondent tone of her voice aggravated Gif, causing him to grab her by the arm, ready to smack her in the mouth. “Watch yourself, Cheri; you know he was good to us.”

Cheri wrenched her arm back from Gif, a look of blazon fury burning in her eyes. “Don’t grab at me, Gif, don’t ever grab at me.” Her dress was slipping off of her tiny frame, which was far too small to support the fashionable garment. Gif noticed the emaciated look of his bride-to-be, her shriveled breasts, twig-like arms and legs. It was as if her cryorphous nutrition regiment was not being followed, though Gif knew this was not the case. The truth was: Cheri, like him, slept nearly 85% of their lives, and so, over time the body ceased to be able to support muscle-growth and maintain healthy levels of fat. Granted, the cryosul was supposed to compensate for these issues, but, as his own shrinking wrist testified to, these measures didn’t always work.

As Gif continued to survey the withering body of his future wife while she re-dressed herself, he noticed a bruising pattern on what would be her left bicep. His eyes moved from the discolored arm to meet hers, full of embarrassment. Assuming the marks were merely some trophy she’d won off some fuck-toy somewhere, Gif debated whether he should even bring it up. Before he could decide her cold voice invaded his being. “What the fuck, Gif? Stop staring at me.” Cheri took a moment to compose herself, then smiled wryly at the man she was supposed to marry someday. “I’m gonna go back in, you got something for me?”

Gif knew what she meant: drugs, not his cock, though she couldn’t have that either, not tonight. The drugs were something else though. Cheri should have been allocated the same share of tier three narcotics as all the other Legacies. “What happened to yours?” he asked dryly.  If she was blowing through her allotment it meant her consumption rates had increased during her waking-periods, and so her cryosul wasn’t properly detoxifying her body during cryorphous.

“Fuck it, Gif, what difference does it make. You gonna give me some or not?” The faint sense of pleasantness Cheri had fabricated moments earlier quickly dematerialized, and again she was nothing if not caustic.

“I can’t Cher, there’s too much Second-Class here. They could take away both our rations.” Gif wasn’t really worried about being found out by the Second-Class, and certainly not the third-class citizens – they were all too caught up in the myriad of problems associated with any society. The truth was: he didn’t want to help her; but he felt compelled to anyway – he couldn’t help himself. Her essence had been uploaded to his psyche when he was a child, as his had been to hers, so that they could come to know one another before they were wed. He definitely hated her, but still, he could not stand to be cruel to her. “You’re completely out?”

“God Damnit, Gif! Just say no – I don’t need your excuses and I don’t need you! Fuck You!” Cheri was screaming at him as she pulled a full inhaler out of her dress. Gif couldn’t help but wonder how she had concealed anything in the small piece of clothing.

“OK then, I’ll see you later, Cher. Love you.” Gif’s voice chased after her as she climbed the stairs back to the party. “Fuck you” were the only words he could make out as Cheri disappeared behind the throngs of people. “Fuck me” Gif thought to himself.

The limousine pulled into the large, circular driveway, the driver opening the rear-door from the front with an automatic device. Gif got into the back of the vehicle, which sped off towards his apartment on the other side of the bay. Flashbulbs erupted from behind the massive gate that separated Victor Machinal’s home from the rest of Sao Paulo as the limousine left the party, carting its’ precious cargo back towards sleep.

VII

     The cryosul opened and Gif lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of the cryochamber. As he looked around the dark room, he could see the nurse already leaving.

“Am I good?” Gif asked just before she reached the room’s exit.

“You’re fine.” The nurse answered in the same sweet accent she always had.

“How long was I down?”

“Only for a week. There’s been an accident, Senor Townsend.” The subtle break in the nurse’s voice let-on the severity of the situation.

“What is it this time? Some old grump choke on a titty? Or no, let me guess…some coke-whore Legacy overdosed, right?” Gif’s indignant tone clearly upset the young nurse.

“Senor Townsend, it’s Cheri…Cheri Trust…they found her last night. She’s dead. I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” The nurse left the room, and Gif crawled out of the cryosul. As he stood, a shooting pain flashed through his brain, causing him to nearly collapse before catching himself on the frame of the cryosul. Glimpses of vicious death and mayhem took turns filling Gif’s mind with images of sexual lust and drug use. The sex and drug stuff he could explain away as memories from some long-lost binge, the murdering stuff, not so easily.

As he regained control of his motor functions, Gif felt his stomach muscles contract in preparation to expunge, and he vomited on the floor of the cryochamber. This was new, as were the visions. Gif assumed he would feel better after cleaning up, and headed into the bathroom for a shower.

VIII

     After washing himself and dressing, Gif decided the visions were just part of a bad dream, and filed them away somewhere deep in his mind. Then he thought of Cheri. Cheri Trust, what had she gotten herself in to? Gif tried to remember his last words with his mating-partner – “fuck you”. So she had probably gone off to get it somewhere else. He remembered that she had asked for part of his allocation before leaving. “Overdose…how ugly” he thought to himself.

He knew they’d be coming to take him to the funeral any minute. Then they’d have a new bride for him. Gif hoped she would be younger this time, not so worn out.  A car entered the driveway of the luxury apartment building, though it was not the limousine he had expected. It was followed by another, and then another. Rather than the limousine, a military police convoy had pulled up in its’ place. Gif watched as two MPs filed up to the front of his apartment. He opened the door before they could ring.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Gif was courteous, if not slightly annoyed.

The larger of the two, a man of Island descent, spoke first. “Yes, Mr. Townsend II? By order of the Interior Minister, Paul Desantos, we’ve been instructed to collect you, immediately.”

Gif was alarmed by this – he had never been summoned by the Interior Minister, though he knew what mandatory visits meant – crime. “By whose order? What does the Minister of the Interior want with me?” Gif was backing up into his apartment as the two goons flanked him on either side.

The smaller MP spoke in such a deep, low tone it seemed impossible that it could have come from a man his size. “That doesn’t concern us, sir. You just need to come with us – now!” The smaller MP grabbed Gif by the arm, his tight grip inescapable. As he struggled with the smaller man, the Islander hit Gif in the neck with a neurophine shot, rendering him instantly unconscious.

 IX

     The military transport rolled slowly through the streets of inner-city Sao Paulo, which had continued to grow through the 21^st century as an urban sprawl boasting all the amenities of overpopulation: drugs, prostitution, gambling. Yet, where Legacies were allocated reserves of narcotics, and encouraged to fuck and gamble their lives away, third and second-class citizens were expected to work, and nothing else. Any sub-class citizens unable to fulfill their roles as productive members of the Confederation were considered a burden to society, and therefore completely written off by society. Gif looked out of the tinted windows of the transport, bewildered by the varying scenes of poverty and grief. Children stood at every corner, pounding on the windows of passing vehicles, begging for change, or worse. As the convoy rolled past, canons full of pepper-spray blasted the children and any street-vendors unlucky enough to be in the area. Gif had never seen such destitution, having spent the vast majority of his life either at sleep or at the party, and had was quickly overwhelmed.

“What is this?” Gif spoke distantly to the MPs escorting him, who looked at one another before answering.

“How long since you’ve been on a waking-cycle, spent time in the real world, man?” The Islander’s voice was underscored by sense of compassion.

“Since I was nine…I’ve been alternating cryorphous and waking-periods since I was nine.” The MPs looked at one another again, and then re-assumed the blank stares typical of military personnel.

The military convoy rolled to a slow halt in front of a dark alley in downtown Sao Paulo. Confederate Civil Police Forces were busy collecting evidence, while InfoCast technicians snapped away picture after picture, the flashbulbs of their cameras burning out in a chorus of light-explosions. Gif strained to see through the tinted windows of the vehicle, but could not make out why he had been summoned to this place. As the thoughts rolled through his mind, the rear-passenger door opened, a muscular MP stood on the other side holding it open.

“This way please, Mr. Townsend. Identification Services is waiting for you over there.” The MP indicated the mouth of the alley with the slightest nod of his head. Gif exited the vehicle, after which the MP quickly closed the door behind him. The convoy continued on through the streets of Sao Paulo, leaving only the smell of burnt oil and gasoline behind. “If you please, sir.” The MP again motioned for Gif to head towards the alley, though this time using a more accentuated gesture.

“What? Oh…yeah. Thanks.” Gif followed the directions of the MP and moved towards the group of three or four civil policemen gathered around some piece of evidence. “Hello, Gentlemen, my name’s Gif Townsend…Identification Services hailed me…”

As he finished speaking, the group of policemen turned to face him, revealing the grotesque evidence they had been busy examining. Cheri, it was the mangled body of Cheri Trust. But she didn’t look like an OD, not any OD Gif had seen before, and he had seen a few. Instead, Cheri’s body had been brutalized on every front, leaving cuts, scrapes, and bruises all over her small corpus.  The shock of seeing his mating-partner in such an uncared for state caused Gif’s stomach to contract again, and he vomited all over the street and his shoes.

“First homicide, Mr. Legacy? Then you’ve probably never seen a rape before either.” The IS man was kneeling down beside Cheri, examining the area between her legs. “A real nasty one, too.  Somebody lived out their First-Class fantasies with this one.” The IS man pulled Cheri’s dress down to cover her, the act of which forced Gif to purge again. “Hey, buddy, you all right? Then you do know this one.” The IS man was handing Gif a handkerchief as he spoke.

“My wife…eventually my wife. Cheri Trust…her name’s Cheri Trust.” Gif coughed the words out as he fought in vain to get the disturbingly graphic image out of his head. “How did this happen?”

The IS man looked at his fellow officers before speaking. “Your ‘wife’ was hooking, Mr. Townsend; this happens to be one of the major pitfalls of that profession.”

“Hooking? What the hell are you talking about? She’s First-Class, can have all the sex she wants with whoever she wants. She doesn’t have to pay for it.”

“Well, actually, someone was supposed to pay her. Like I said, she was hooking, not buying. “

“I don’t understand…she was selling her body…to someone else?”

“Well, we didn’t actually find any unauthorized deposits to her credit-account in her recent transaction history, but we do have a perp – caught in the act. Or in the last stages of the act.” The IS man finished explaining the situation to Gif, and re-joined his fellow civil policemen, casually chatting about the subtle differences between this crime scene and the hundreds of others they had seen.

A small commotion could be heard slightly deeper in the darkened alley, beyond where Cheri’s body had come to rest. Two MPs carried a disheveled, dirty-looking man dressed in tattered clothes out of the alley by his arms. The man wore no pants; all manner of bodily fluid was spattered over his body – clearly of the third-class. A sick grin covered the man’s face, which proudly displayed rotting, yellow teeth. Gif was sure he could smell the man from where he stood, recognizing the man as one of Sao Paulo’s destitute – a problem Gif had briefly followed during the education-periods of his youth. Supposedly the problem of violent transients had been remedied by the Confederation. “Apparently not” Gif thought.

“What’s going to happen to him?” The IS man Gif had spoken with earlier acknowledged his question by turning back around to face him again.

“Him? Don’t you worry about him – he’s taken care of.” The IS man hadn’t finished speaking before Gif could hear the violent smashing of the MP’s batons against the feeble body of the transient. Then, a gunshot, and finally, silence. “You see, he’s all done. Now, I’ve been ordered to transport you to the offices of the Interior Ministry. Come with me, please.” Before he had time to protest, Gif was swept away by the civil police into another armored convoy.  As the vehicles rolled away, Gif watched through the rear window as Cheri and the transient were dragged away in the same refuse-collection receptacle. The irony of Cheri’s final partner was not lost him.

X

     The offices of the Interior Ministry of Brazil were located in the central plaza of Sao Paulo, and were staunchly defended. Though, behind the fiercely guarded entrance of the compound were lush gardens and pristine fountains pumping crystal-clear water. Gif had not visited the Interior Ministry since he had been a small boy. His father had taken Gif with him on several occasions before beginning his cryorphous regiment.

Once the convoy made it through the security checkpoint and into the gardens of the IM compound, the vehicles slowed to a halt. Gif’s door was again opened from the outside, though this time Mick Taylor stood waiting to greet him.

“Hey G, I’m sorry to hear about Cher. There’s nothing you could have done.” Dr. Taylor was helping Gif out of the vehicle, and then offering an embrace of condolence. “She was always a wild one.”  Gif felt a cold distance from his childhood friend. Mick, of all people, should know how much he loathed Cheri and the compatible-mate partnering system.

“So then I’m here so that you people can partner me with some other supposedly ‘compatible’ fuck-buddy?”  Gif let the disdain seethe from his mouth, while his arms barely returned his friend’s hug. Instead, Gif pushed his arm between them, and fetched his cocaine-inhaler from his jacket pocket, taking a long draw on the device.

“Jesus, Gif, it’s not even noon yet. Enough with that stuff.”

“Whatever you say, Doc, whatever you say.” Gif replaced the inhaler in his jacket. “Let’s go get this over with.” He was already walking past Mick Taylor towards the main offices of the Interior Ministry compound.

XI

     Paul Desantos’ office was located in the center of the IM complex, and was staffed with the most beautiful second and third class citizens Gif had ever seen.  The decadence of the Interior Minister’s office could only be rivaled by the excessive tastes of the First-Class.

As Gif entered the office, he realized there was no assortment of young women from which his next mate would be selected. Rather, the room was empty except for the Interior Minister and Dr. Taylor.  “Thanks, Pam, that’ll be all” Desantos instructed the receptionist in his trademark Brazilian accent, and the three men were left alone in the office.

“What’s this all about, Mick” Gif’s voice was distant, uninterested, as the pure cocaine-fix he had ingested moments early was taking up most of his attention.

“Mr. Townsend, it’s been brought to our attention that your former-partner, Ms. Trust, was found dead this morning, the victim of rape resulting in homicide. As I’m sure you know, violence perpetrated against Legacies cannot go unpunished, and so a full-scale investigation has begun to determine what Ms. Trust’s intentions were on the streets the last few weeks and…”

Gif interrupted, “Weeks? You’re saying Cher had done this before?”

“We’re not sure, Gif,” Dr. Taylor’s voice maintained the compassion of a true friend, “that’s why you’re here. We’re doing everything we can, and that includes a neural-scan of your synaptic-terminals. Hopefully we’ll uncover something only you know that will help us uncover the truth behind Cheri’s horrible demise.”

The news alarmed Gif, who instinctively jumped up, out of the chair he had been seated in. “What the fuck? You can’t conduct a synaptic scan on a Legacy without a Presidential release. Besides, I’ll never submit, and it’s against Confederate law to conduct medical experiments on unwilling participants.”

“Oh, Mr. Townsend. You just don’t get it, do you?” Mr. Desantos pressed the intercom button on his desk. “We’re ready, Pam.” The doors of the office opened and the MPs who had collected Gif from his apartment emerged.  Gif quickly surveyed the room for another exit, though there was none. His next impulse drove Gif to throw his body into the MPs, who easily caught him. “Don’t struggle, Gif, just let it happen.” Mr. Desantos’ voice echoed through the office as the MPs drove his body onto the floor of the office, twisting his arms behind his back, causing Gif to scream in pain.

“This isn’t necessary, Maestro. I’m sure he’ll come if you let me talk to him.” Mick Taylor was also standing now, pleading with Mr. Desantos.

“No, Dr. Taylor, I do not think he would have come willingly” was the last thing Gif perceived before slipping into a state of controlled narcotic sleep.

XI

     Gif’s eyes slowly opened, the sedating effects of the neurophine shots he’d received were wearing off, though the chemical hangover affecting his motor skills continued to linger. The arm and leg restraints binding him to the examination table prevented Gif from sitting up. His head was held in a medical vice that also prevented movement, though with his vision restored, Gif could make out the neural cleansing equipment surrounding him, and his friend, Mick Taylor.

“Mick, what the hell is happening here? What are you doing to me?” Gif coughed the words out, his voice strained from being heavily sedating without hydration.

Mick’s voice held the same compassionate, ever loyal tone it always had. “Just relax, G, all systems will recover optimal functioning capabilities here shortly. Lay there and let me drive…that’s how’s it’s always been, right amigo? You’re gonna be fine.”

Still, Gif couldn’t understand what his friend was telling him. “What are you talking about, Mick. Get me the fuck out of here. My waking-period’s expired for this rotation anyway; just put me back in cryorphous, make sure my schedule’s checked, and leave me alone.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Townsend, not yet.” Paul Desantos’ voice boomed from the observation deck overlooking the examination floor, his accent assuming an affable quality.  “No, you will keep your schedule, but first, we must purge those nasty memories stored deep in your memory bank.” Dr. Taylor was finalizing preparations on the neural cap that would transmit Gif’s collectable memory into visual projections.

“Nasty memories? You can’t be serious. All I do is fuck and drugs. Specifically, which ‘nasty memories’ did you want to clean?” Gif’s voice had become defiant. He was a Legacy – there was no way the Confederation would go through with this.

“All of them, Mr. Townsend, all of them.” Mr. Desantos’ voice reeked with malcontent. “Dr. Taylor, Begin.”

Without hesitation Mick Taylor turned to the controls of the neural cleanser and commenced the procedure. Gif struggled to dissuade his friend, but the shock of the cleanser racing through his neural cortex, cataloging any memory he was capable of recalling, froze his speech. “Mick, please, don’t do this…” Dr. Taylor never looked at Gif, always keeping his attention completely focused on the machine in front of him.

From the neural cleanser, the visual projections of Gif’s memories were transmitted to the observing device, which relayed the images onto a large screen at the opposite end of the examination floor. Similar to the flashing white glimpses Gif had experienced earlier, the projections depicted all manner of violence and debauchery. Some of the scenes he remembered, others were completely foreign. An image depicting Victor Machinal speaking intently to another person flashed across the screen, from a first-person point of view. The two men were in an apartment, carrying large duffel bags, apparently walking to a secret deposit location. The unidentified man looks at the walls of the apartment as he walks, admiring the same pictures displayed on the walls of Gif’s apartment– it is Gif’s Apartment! Machinal kneels down and he and the other man place the duffel bags into a trapdoor in the floor of the bedroom. One of the bags is slightly opened, revealing what are obviously kilos of drugs packaged for distribution. Suddenly the man retrieves a gun from his waste and shoots Victor Machinal twice in the face, then several times in the body.

The projection switches to another scene involving Cheri. She is dressed beautifully, obviously ready to go out. Standing outside on a street corner, she seems to be waiting for somebody. The first person view approaches Cheri, accompanied by another man. Money is exchanged, and the other man takes Cheri by the arm, leading her back to his car. From this closer point of view, Cheri’s inebriated state is much more obvious. As she and the unknown man get into the car, undoubtedly to participate in some paid-for sexual act, the first-person point of view kneels down to tie his finely polished shoe. The shoes are so finely polished they reflect the image of the wearer: Gif Townsend II.

Disgusted by the images, Gif fought to convince his friend to stop this cruelest form of torture. “Please, Mick, you’ve gotta turn it off. This is killing me. I never did anything to Cheri…I loved her.”

“Loved her?” Paul Desantos scoffed at the idea. “Loved her? How could you love anyone? The whole purpose of your life is to indulge yourself, first and foremost. Everything, and everyone else, is secondary.”

“That’s not true! We were gonna get married, have kids. You know that Mick, tell him.” Dr. Taylor did not answer his friend, but continued to manage the neural cleanser.

“Only because we told you to, Mr. Townsend, not because you actually loved anyone.” Before the words had left his mouth, Gif could see the truth in what Paul Desantos was saying.  “Everything you do is part of a carefully planned schedule to show you off to the rest of Sao Paulo and the world. And in the time between your ‘waking periods’, as you all like to call them, we maximize all of your affluence as best as we can.”

“What does that mean, Mick?” Gif didn’t expect his friend to answer him, but continued talking to him out of habit.

“It means we use you when you’re in cryorphous the way you use us when you’re awake. And you, I mean, you were great, Gif. You could go through any checkpoint in the world untouched. You’re a god damned international golden-boy; everyone out there wants to be you. So, as you fly around the world, making appearances at the best parties in the best vacation spots, you’re also carrying millions of Confederate credits worth of drugs for us – cocaine, mostly.”

“But why Cheri? Why did you do that to her?”

“Well, technically, Mr. Townsend, you did that to her.  But come on now, Gif, don’t tell me you’re not getting this; you’re a god damned genius’ son.” The mocking tone that highlighted Paul Desantos’ voice was palpable, and seemed to pinch Gif with every vowel uttered. “Listen, OK? If you’re, oh, say, a beautiful woman, like, I don’t know, Cheri Trust, then we pimp you out to the highest Second-Class bidder. Then, when you’re no good for that, we pimp you out to the third-classers. Now, granted, that’s not a lot compared to what First-Classers with high Confederate profiles like you bring in for us on the market, but we all have our roles to play, don’t we Gif?”

“So you just killed her. Like that, for nothing. You’re a fucking outrage, Desantos,” Gif’s eyes rolled within his restrained head to view his oldest friend, Mick Taylor, “And you, you’re part of this? Mick! All this time, and what, you’ve been just monitoring me?  Damnit, you knew her man. We went to school with her for Christ’s sake!” Gif thought he sensed Dr. Taylor momentarily pause from the neural cleanser and glance towards his patient, though he said nothing.

“Don’t blame him, Mr. Townsend; he has done nothing any of us would not have done to advance our places in this world. It is only because of Dr. Taylor’s association with your family that he was ever accepted to the university in Florianopolis, or ever assigned his prestigious post here in the capital.” Paul Desantos allowed a gloating chuckle to escape his mouth. “And as for your lover, Cheri Trust, I assure, between myself and Dr. Taylor, we both made doubly sure she would be prepared for her new line of work.”

Gif could not help himself, and so screamed an agonized scream. “You sick bastards, both of you, sick fucking cunts. You’ll be found out – you know you will Mick.” Gif was again addressing his lifelong friend, the man who had paid to have sex with his wife, then had her killed. “At my next waking-period, I’ll go to the Assembly. I won’t go along with this shit.” Gif spit at his friend, an impulse that surprised both men, though it still elicited no verbal response from the Doctor.

“My gods, Mr. Townsend, are you so daft? We’ve cleansed your memory after more covert assignments than we can count. This will be like any other.” Mr. Desantos was clearly becoming tired of the situation. “Dr. Taylor, we’re finished here. Clean him up then put him back in cryorphous. When he wakes up, introduce him to his new wife, tell him about his old wife, get him high, send him to a party, and that’ll be that.” The old Brazilian’s black skin contrasted sharply the shine of his many medals as he left the observation booth.

“Mick, Mick, listen to me,” Gif was pleading, “you’ve got to help me man.” Mick still did not respond, which caused Gif to impulsively shout. “Hey you Fuck! Listen to me! You can’t let them keep doing this to me! Do you hear me, do you fucking hear me you??!”

Dr. Mick Taylor stopped his computations and turned, leaning over to face his friend. “Why can’t we, Gif? You do the same things voluntarily when you’re awake, and worse. You fuck young women, and boys. You snort coca the entire time you’re awake, right? You kidnap lower-class citizens and abuse them to death, Gif? Is that true?” The disgust that enveloped Mick’s voice was matched only by its’ disappointment.

“To death? Mick, I, that was Cher’s thing.” Gif’s voice had lost all its’ power. “I never killed anyone, man. That’s not my thing.”

“Maybe not your thing…but your girl’s thing? Definitely, and lots of other First-Classers, too. That’s the problem with all of you:  think you’re entitled to do whatever the fuck you want.  Just like your Dad, G.”

“What the fuck. This has…nothing to do…with anything. He was good, Mick, he mentored you at the university. You know he was good.” Gif sounded broken, reserved to the truth.

“He was good until he tried to stand in the way of the progress of the Confederation. Your father thought just because he discovered cryorphous, he could decide how and who to use it on. When he learned of the Interior Minister’s decision to use you in the assignments, he tried to shut the program down. I would have been out of work, G, and then what? I’m not Legacy, what future do I have then? It was the right thing to do, he endangered too many people.

Dr. Mick Taylor turned back to the neural cleanser and resumed his work. “Don’t worry, amigo, this won’t hurt a bit. And when you come back, it’ll be like always. I’ll see you when you wake up.” As the doctor threw the switch to commence the final cleansing process, Gif Townsend howled in pain a lament that seemed to last forever, the way dreams have no time, and everything fades to black.

XII

     The lid of the cryosul opened and Gif’s tired eyes gradually focused on the familiar smiling face of his oldest friend, and coincidentally the best doctor he knew, Mick Taylor. “Uhgg…Mick, you look like shit.” The doctor helped the awakened man climb out of his resting place in the cryosul, the cold floor of the cryochamber causing him to jump slightly. “But what else is new?”

“You look good too, amigo, as always.” The loyal, sincere tone of Mick’s voice was comforting to Gif as a first sound to hear after a long cryorphous.

“How long was I down…and why the hell are you even here, where’s the nurse, that old piece of shit?

“You’ve been down almost a year, Gif. I’m here to inform you that your mating-partner, Cheri-Trust, died of an overdose during her last waking-period.” Mick helped his friend put a robe on as they spoke.

“Fuck, overdose, huh? Fucking ugly, right?” Gif felt a strange shiver run through his body as he considered his wife being found in a pool of her own vomit by the most affluent of Sao Paulo, a sensation he wrote off to embarrassment.  “Fucking ugly.”

“I know, G, I’m sorry. But, on the brighter side, before we brought you out of cryorphous, we were able to find another compatible mating-partner for you.” Dr. Taylor took a step back and opened the door to the cryochamber. A beautiful Latina women entered, dressed in the height of Brazilian fashion. Gif felt like he had met her before, although couldn’t imagine where. “May I present the daughter of Interior Minister, Paul Desantos.

As he inspected her physically, Gif asked the most obvious question: “Is she Legacy?”

“That’s what great, G; because of Mr. Desantos’ dedication and service to the Confederation, all his heirs are to be considered Legacy, beginning with her.” Mick indicated the fine young Latina, who only smiled, with a full cocaine-inhaler, which he then handed to Gif.

“Well that is excellent, Mick, you’ve done a great service, yourself…you’ve really out done it this time.” Gif took a blast off the inhaler then pulled the Latina girl close to him. “Alright buddy,” he patted Dr. Taylor, his best friend on the shoulder, “I’m gonna get cleaned up, I’m sure there’s some events me and my lovely new future-wife will be expected to attend.”

“Absolutely, sir.” Mick Taylor stayed behind in the cryochamber, checking the cryosul’s instrumentation for indications of any weakening in his patient’s life functions.

Gif entered the bathroom with the Latina girl, and began to disrobe. “I’ll get that” the Latina girl said as she pulled the robe off his body. Somehow, Gif was sure he knew her voice.