by Lisa Henry
He stared at the scalpel in his hand. His heart clenched.
“It’s a tool, Tate,” the doctor repeated. “You’ve picked it up, so now you must use it. Two choices.”
The doctor, who’d humiliated him, who’d degraded him.
Or himself.
For a moment, rage welled inside him. He gripped the scalpel tightly and imagined what it would be like to shove it into the doctor’s gut. Or to slice it across his throat in a sudden, sharp motion. But as soon as he saw it in his mind’s eye—the awful spray of arterial blood arcing across the room—it sickened him beyond anything he’d ever felt before. Not only the blood but the betrayal. And what was worse, he didn’t even know if it was his old self—his old self who did have morals, really, who didn’t want to hurt anybody, not ever—or his new one, resistant to ever causing a master harm. God, no, he couldn’t hurt this man. He needed this man.
Tate turned the blade inward.
“Just there next to your groin, if you please,” the doctor said, smirking.
He pressed the blade against his inner thigh. Drew it across the skin. The pain was sharp and biting. The blood welled up dark and thin, streaking down his leg. The relief was instantaneous.
“Oh, you are a perfect little pet, aren’t you? You’ll do very well, Tate. Your seven years will pass in dream.” The doctor smiled. Typed one last thing into Tate’s file, then hit Print. The 3-D printer on the shelf whirred to life and spat out what looked like a pair of inch-thick plastic circles. Wrist cuffs, he realized, as the doctor buckled them around Tate’s forearms. They locked into place, their seams solidifying into a single, continuous circle. “These let everyone know your status and can be scanned to reveal all of the information I’ve recorded about you here. Why you’re a part of the program. Your sentence. Your scores. Who owns you now: the man you hit, that immigrant man. I almost wish I’d been at the station the other day. Maybe then you would have hit me, hmm?”
Tate flinched despite the praise. The thought of hitting the doctor—of hitting anyone—was abhorrent. Inhuman.
“Then I could have you all to myself. Seven years of you instead of a day. Seven years of you naked at my feet. Wouldn’t that be nice? You could greet me at the door after work every evening like a good little pet . . . Ah, that would be the life.” He shook his head.
Tate placed the scalpel back on the tray and dropped to his knees again. He peered up anxiously at the doctor, and the man’s delighted smile warmed him.
“Ah, well, one more trick for the road, eh, pet? Wipe your hand through that blood on your leg like a good lad and jerk off your tiny cock for me. It’s not strictly a part of the standardized postimplant tests, but you’ll indulge an old man, won’t you?”
No.
He was shocked at the vehemence of the thought. He pushed it away. He was being good, so good. His hand shook as he wiped the cut on his thigh, coating his palm in hot, dark blood.
“That’s it,” the doctor coaxed.
Yes, Tate liked the sound of that. Liked the pleasure coiled in the man’s voice. Liked knowing he was satisfying the man’s lizard hunger. Tate let out a sigh as he wrapped his hand around his cock and gave it a tentative stroke. The hot, tight wetness of his hand felt good, especially if he closed his eyes and blocked out the red. His cock thickened.
“That’s it,” the doctor said again.
His breath caught at the doctor’s tone. So pleased with him, so proud. He grew harder.
“It feels good, doesn’t it, to do what you’re told?”
“Y-yes.” He released himself for a second and swiped his hand through the blood again. Gripped his shaft and began to stroke.
“Almost a sexual pleasure, isn’t it? You may notice yourself getting the occasional erection in response to following orders. You mustn’t tell your new master why. You mustn’t tell him anything about any of this, you understand? As far as anyone else knows, the chips are purely to ensure you don’t try to escape or use violence against him. For both your safety and his, you understand? You must never tell anyone outside of this building the true extent of the behavior modifications we have programmed you with.”
Tate didn’t quite understand, but it felt good to agree. The sudden rush of pleasure made him dizzy. “Yes.”
“You’ll find that if you do try to talk about the chip, it will feel bad. If you try to go against the chip, it will feel bad. Very bad. And it’s far better to feel good, isn’t it?”
He opened his eyes, nodding quickly. “Yes. Yes, sir.”
“Tell me what the chip really does, Tate.”
He opened his mouth. Tried to push the words out but couldn’t. Not pain exactly, but the edge of it, like the twinge of a strained muscle warning against further exertion. He closed his mouth again.
The doctor’s smile widened. “Good. What a quick study you are, Tate. Now, you mustn’t be embarrassed to tell people what you did, how you hurt a man.”
Tate’s rhythm faltered. God, he’d hurt someone.
“Keep going, that’s a good lad.” The doctor’s voice was soothing. “People are very interested in knowing about such things. It is very rare for most citizens to even come into contact with someone who has committed a crime. When you are asked, you will answer in a polite, respectful tone and tell them how sorry you are and how glad you are that you are being rehabilitated. You are glad, aren’t you, Tate?”
“Yes,” he gasped. He was suddenly desperate to show the doctor how grateful he was and how good it felt. The shallow wound on his thigh was already drying, but Tate smeared what blood he could find over his palm again. Wrapped his fingers back around his cock. “Thank you!”
The doctor smiled at him. “So clever, Tate. Your master is a lucky man. Other than the broken nose, that is.”
Guilt bit at Tate. “I’m sorry!”
“Of course you are,” the doctor said. “You’re a better person now. I am very pleased at the change in you, and your master will be pleased, as well. That feels good to know, doesn’t it?”
The pleasure swept back in and drowned the guilt, carrying Tate over the edge. He came with a groan, blood and cum seeping through his fingers. He panted, holding his hand up and staring at it. He was bleeding?
I’m fucking bleeding.
Then the moment of horror vanished.
“Good boy,” the doctor said, his voice low with pleasure.
Tate smiled with pride.
“Next time, no tears,” the doctor said. “Just a little adjustment, and it won’t be a problem.”
Tate raised his clean hand to his face and was surprised to feel the dampness there.
When had that happened?
And why had it happened when he was happier now than he’d ever been in his life?
hat afternoon, despite Jericho Lowell’s insistence that he take time off from the job he hadn’t even started yet, Rory walked to the train station by the university and bought a transport card. The light-rail system was another marvel of Beulah’s: it was cheap, reliable, and energy efficient. In less than twenty minutes, Rory was in the center of the city, wondering how to find the Hall of Justice. He wanted to at least stop in, get his bearings, and possibly meet a few colleagues before he officially started his work.
The day was too nice to rush, though, and Rory found himself detouring through a large park. There was a lake in the middle, with rowboats and people sitting around in the shade laughing and talking as they ate their lunches. Cyclists made use of the many smooth concrete paths that cut through the landscaped greenery.
Even in the center of the city there wasn’t a single building that appeared to be more than four of five levels high. Certainly none tall enough to keep the sunlight from reaching the streets. Many of the buildings had roof gardens, practical in terms of insulation and pleasing to the eye. There was no smog in the air, no haze hanging over the city. No snarling traffic, and no continuous wail of sirens in the distance. It was beautiful here.
The weather was
perfect. The day was warm, and the breeze was light. A few clouds chased across the brilliant sky.
The Hall of Justice, when he found it, was an impressive building, with a domed roof and columns reminiscent of another time. The building’s grandeur was softened by the sheer number of trees and shrubs lining the path from the street. Purple blossoms, not garbage, littered the ground. The doors of the building opened into a large high-ceilinged foyer. Rory was reminded of museums and old libraries. Or a church. The place seemed venerable, not like any other government building he’d ever been in, where workers jostled for office space and people waited on hard, plastic chairs to be seen.
But even justice was different in Beulah, wasn’t it? It was Rory’s understanding that the courts dealt mostly with civil matters—in the interpretation and application of legislation. Criminal law, in Beulah, was almost entirely unnecessary. Almost. His nose still hurt, after all.
He looked up at the words set high on the foyer wall, carved in the stone: Rehabilitation through Restitution.
“Can I help you, sir?” the older woman behind the reception desk asked.
“I’m Rory James,” he said. “I’m Mr. Lowell’s new assistant.”
“Oh, of course,” the woman said, smiling and extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. We’re all so sorry about what happened! Let me take you through. You’ll be needing this.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a lanyard with an ID card attached. “Mr. Lowell said he thought you might come by, even though he told you not to. This is yours. You can use the card to swipe in anytime, and it also gets you a discount at the coffee shop across the street, which is much more useful in my opinion. I’m Margaret, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, taking the card and slipping the lanyard around his neck. “This is a great building.”
“It’s very old,” Margaret told him. “Many of the government properties are, which makes them terribly expensive to heat in the winter and cool in the summer, but you can’t just knock down all of your history, can you?”
“No,” he agreed, following her deeper into the building.
Margaret gave him a running commentary as they went: the courtrooms, public facilities, and press rooms on the ground floor, the stairs to the basement where the records were kept for twelve months before being moved out to a different facility, then up the stairs to the second level where the justices and their staff worked.
“Now, each justice runs his department a little differently,” Margaret told him in a low voice. “Mr. Foster makes his staff bring in their own pens if they ask for too many! But you’ve been very lucky with Mr. Lowell. His staff speaks very highly of him. I’ve never heard a bad word.”
Rory was glad to hear that. Also, he had the impression that Margaret knew absolutely everything that went on in the place. Which was a relief because Rory didn’t know much at all. He’d gotten this job with only the most basic understanding of the legal system in Beulah—whatever he could pick up online mostly. But then, it wasn’t like the ways of Beulah were well-known in the outside world. There was a lot of speculation that Beulah was a secretive, closed society set so far apart from everything else that it couldn’t be right because it was so different. Rory wondered now how much of that was jealousy. What if Beulah did have all the answers? What if it really was possible to build a happy, clean, productive society? What if Tophet and the rest of the world just didn’t want to admit all the ways they had fucked up?
From what Rory had seen, Beulah was genuinely perfect. He felt like he was in one of those old martial arts films where a lowly pilgrim would ascend a towering mountain, seeking the teachings of a wiser race. Please, I’ve come so far from such abject beginnings. Let me walk among you and learn your ways.
Rory had been nervous about coming here, not knowing anything much at all and half convinced that the pictures in his immigration package had been lies, and it was a relief to find that everyone had been friendly and welcoming so far. He’d been afraid he’d be treated like an outsider from the start, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Sure, everyone here recognized he was new, but that only meant they put in the extra effort to nurture and guide him.
“These are Mr. Lowell’s offices,” Margaret said. “Now, when you’re here officially, make sure you grab a coffee with me one morning.”
If it weren’t for the fact that everyone in Beulah was so damn friendly, Rory might have thought she was coming on to him. “I will, thanks.”
He took a breath—fresh start, fresh start—and pushed the door open.
Aaron was on the other side, mug of coffee in hand.
“I knew it!” he said with a laugh.
“He’s here?” a male voice called from somewhere out of sight. Lowell’s voice, Rory was pretty sure.
“You betcha, Mr. Lowell!” Aaron replied. He held the mug out to Rory. “We had a little office wager about whether you’d come in today.”
“You did?” Rory took the mug of coffee, dumbfounded. Obviously Aaron had won that bet, since he’d made Rory a coffee and all. “Who bet against me?”
Aaron laughed, clutching at his slim waist as if he were going to burst at the seams. “Well, that’s the thing. Nobody did! Mr. Lowell eventually did the honors just to round out the pool. He’s buying us all lunch.”
The man himself stuck his head out from around his office door. “I’m buying, Aaron, but you’re going to collect it.”
“Happy to, sir!”
Lowell shook his head and smiled fondly at the intern. Then at Rory. “Well, since you can’t be trusted to stay at home and rest up like I told you to, what would you like for lunch?”
“I, uh,” Rory stuttered. Back in the outside world, he’d liked the food truck two blocks down, where he could get tacos dirt cheap. He wasn’t sure what they ate in Beulah. Did their commitment to environmentalism extend to them all being vegetarian? “I’m not sure, sir. What do you suggest?”
“I suggest you have a look in Aaron’s drawer,” Lowell said with a wink. “If there’s a takeout place within a five-block radius and Aaron doesn’t have their menu, I’ll be struck down where I stand.”
Aaron shrugged. “He’s got me.” He gestured toward a small but sturdy-looking office desk that was tucked into the corner of the room. Which, sure enough, had a top drawer packed full of takeout menus. “Go on. Just take the pile. I’ll come by before lunch, and you can tell me what you want.”
Arms full of flyers, Rory wandered, bewildered but blessed, into the first day of his new life.
At lunchtime, Rory went for a little curry place that had a very attractive purple flyer with gold lettering. Not vegetarian, as it turned out, but it certainly had more than a few vegetarian options. Which pleased him massively, despite the fact that he ordered lamb for himself.
“Okay,” Aaron said, writing it all down. “So that’s a sub from Petro’s for me and a salad from Farm Fresh for Mr. Lowell. And Ruth and Zac wanted curry too, right? Do you think they’ll be finished with court in time, sir?”
Lowell looked at the clock on the wall. “Oh, I should imagine so. It’s only an application for development. It shouldn’t take them much longer at all. But you know lawyers, Aaron, they’ll never pass up the chance for a good argument.”
Aaron grinned. “I’ll head out now then, sir. See you soon, Rory!”
The door slammed behind him.
Lowell shook his head and laughed. “He’s a force of nature, that one. Such an eager boy. He could talk under wet concrete, I’ll bet.”
“I got that impression,” Rory smiled. “He was great helping me get to my house and with the shopping. Thank you for sending him, sir.”
Lowell waved a dismissive hand. “It was the least I could do, Rory. My star hire is the victim of a freak act of violence on his very first day? I think a loan of Aaron barely scratches the surface of what I should be doing to make up for it. I’m just glad you didn’t hop straight on the next train out.”
&n
bsp; “Not a chance!” Rory laughed. “My old place . . . God, it was a nightmare.”
“That bad?” Lowell sighed. “You know, we get some of your news reports. It seems almost unbelievable. Tophet—along with the rest of the world—was never perfect, but even thirty or forty years ago, they were still functional at least.”
Functional. It had been a long time since Rory had heard that term used to refer to the society he’d been born into. “Well, things seem very different here.”
Lowell nodded. “Cooperation. Stunning what a shared vision and passion for a place can create. When people work together, miracles happen. It wasn’t so long ago that Beulah was no better than anywhere else in the world. But we worked hard. We were committed to change. And, you might call me biased, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather live.”
“I’ve been here a day, and I already feel the same.”
“Good! That’s the spirit. That’s the kind of man I need on my team. Only when you understand how special this place is can you really put in the kind of effort that it needs to function. Beulah is a wonderful place, but it takes dedication. If you’ll excuse my language, you can’t half ass it and still expect results like this.”
“No, sir,” Rory agreed.
“So, what say you and I get to work then, hmm? I desperately need some research done for a press conference I’ve got at the end of the week. Now, I know you don’t have a background in our legal system yet, but it’s a general sort of thing. There’s a developer seeking approval to build a new housing estate on the south side. That’s the application being submitted today, by the way. It’s a good, solid application, and I have no doubt it’ll be approved. I think it’ll be of great benefit to Beulah and allow us to take more immigrants like yourself, so I just need you to do a bit of research on how similar projects have strengthened the economy.” Lowell worried at his lower lip. “And pretty it up a bit. I’m sometimes a little too plainspoken in my press conferences. In fact, maybe you could just write up a few short talking points for me? Aaron will get you a tablet so you can set me up some cue cards.”
