Moral Zero

by Set Sytes

  You gonna take me?

  Johnny ran his hand over his face and squinted into the sun until his eyes stung. He put his hand on the child’s shoulder without looking at him. You stay here.

  He strode off as if it was purposeful, but he was unable to keep a grip on any thought. His mind seemed to be emptying itself with every step. Images of the kid forced to watch his mother get gangfucked dashed through his mind at a gallop, dumped on his brain then thrown off to the trash. Back it comes. Throw it away. Back it comes.

  As he entered the shack his vision was hollow and blurred, and he had no thoughts of his own at all.

  The shack was one room, just a bench and a bed in the corner for the mother and the child. She was sat on it, her knees hunched up to her chin. She had dirty black hair that straggled down to her waist and her face was bony but not ugly. She looked at him when he came in and then looked straight back at her knees. She started rocking slightly.

  Johnny Black came in and sat beside her.

  I’m going to rape you, he said softly. She said nothing.

  He lent in close to her, so she could smell the stench of death on his breath, and he kissed her lightly on the forehead, and then further kisses down her cheek and onto her neck. He kissed her like he was martyring her, like he was saving her from the world.

  His rough, cracked lips found hers and then they were entwined, and he was delivering his kisses on her every spot he could as he took off her rags of clothes. He stripped himself, lost in a sense of vacant passion, fiddling with belt and freeing his erect member, his hands fondling her entrance, running his fingers down the wetness. He buried his face between her legs and ate her until she was crying and pulling him back up. He moved himself into her and his huge shaft clove into her inch by inch, as painlessly as he could manage, tickling her clitoris all the while, keeping her from experiencing any feeling but warmth inside her.

  He made love to her as slow as he could manage, slower than he’d ever fucked in his life, feeling it sink in and out, each inch swallowed up by her as if she was letting him in to the core of her soul, and then gradually letting each inch out, releasing it back to him. There was no blood, no screams, but there were tears; they came running down her face and ran down to her groin as he kissed her mouth and neck and breasts over and over, and the tears ran down over her clitoris and coated his shaft and came back inside her body, her emotions driven back into her being.

  He told her she was beautiful as he came inside her, and she wept more and he said it more and she shuddered and bucked and climaxed at the same time at him, gripping his shoulders tight with her hands and then they settled in the longest of kisses.

  He walked back out of the shack, hat pulled down and head hung low, only to see the kid in his path. He stopped and hooked his thumbs into his belt.

  Did you rape her? the child asked him.

  Yes. Do you think I’m a bad person?

  Dunno.

  Later on, after she’s rested, ask your mother. See if she says if I’ve not hurt her more than any man or woman ever did or will.

  The kid was silent, and Johnny looked up into the blazing sun without squinting.

  Long live Mr White, he murmured to the sky. Long live Kidd Red. May you one day find peace, if it takes you a thousand lifetimes.

  And as the kid’s eyes hunted him down Johnny Black walked off into the sandswept swirl of dust and devils.

  EPILOGUE

  FOR THOSE WHO GO DEEPER

  GREAT LONDON STATE

  The man felt a sense of falling, of losing things, losing everything. He tried to grab hold of them but they span away, and his mind felt like it was breaking up into tiny pieces.

  He circled around the pit of unconsciousness for a while, before the pieces slowly stitched themselves back together, to form a new landscape of consciousness. The old mind scattered away, feeling like a half-remembered dream.

  The man opened his eyes. Four walls of bare stone. One iron door. A cell. Plugs and trailing wires on the floor.

  Jonathan White? A cold, imperious voice to his side made him cry out like he had been wounded. He shuffled like a frightened animal to the far wall, pulling his rags up in an attempt to hide from the speaker.

  Jonathan White? The man in the stark grey uniform looked at his clipboard, while the man in rags shivered and peeked at him with eyes terrified from confusion.

  Yes, it is you. There is often some delay in return to normalcy after prolonged exposure.

  Jonathan White found his own voice, and it sounded mousey and unlike anything he knew. Ex- exposure?

  To the Mark Seventeen. You’ve just been unplugged. You’ve been hooked up for . . . The uniformed man glanced again at his clipboard, and then to the two men standing just behind him, who wore cruel uniforms of black and navy blue, and had faces hard and rough.

  . . . Three years, four months and six days. It can cause quite a strain on the mind. Many are said to go mad. Is it madness, though? Perhaps it is an unlocking of the real self. I understand, though, that you had prior experience. You were a noder before your arrest. All, of course, ultimately counting against you. You are damaged goods, Mr White. Severely so.

  Wh- what? What is this place? Why am I here? What’s going on?

  You’re on death row, Mr White. The cold-voiced man with the arched eyebrows and the hooked nose and bald, bony head breathed through his nostrils impatiently, as if he had run through similar explanations before.

  Inmates get hooked up to Seventeen during their stay. Primary purpose to keep them docile, with minimum security required. Secondary purpose to monitor them, to analyse their minds. Observing what’s down the rabbit hole, so to speak. The man feigned a bored yawn.

  I have been personally following your progress. You were all over the place, Mr White. It appears there were . . . splits. Cracks. Of course, the strain, but . . . It was most interesting.

  What?!

  Your experiences must, of course, be monitored carefully. All the simulations must. Do you understand why?

  For pleasure. You’re voyeurs, Jonathan said with sudden realisation.

  The hook-nosed man curled his lip. Wrong. We are not like you, Mr White. We are good people.

  Jonathan said nothing, but closed his eyes. He felt so tired, like he had led multiple lifetimes in succession, or at the same time, all without sleep.

  The game… He started.

  The man snorted. Game? It’s not a game, Mr White. It’s the G.L.S. Mark Seventeen Simulation. It is a tool of science. And it is very extensive. Layered, even. All the better to deceive the subject. The deeper the rabbit hole goes, you see, the deeper into the mind we travel. One must lose all ties with reality. It’s all very impressive. A great deal of work has gone into it. But of course, the bulk of the work is done by you. Especially you. Your power of invention… Quite mad. Quite mad.

  If there is any pleasure in our observations, it is purely academic, the man continued. There is a science to it. They are psychological studies. They allow us to better know the mind of the pervert, and thus the better to catch him. Your – or any other inmate’s – virtual experiences also act as confirmation of your crimes, of your sick mindset and your clear danger to the Great London State. To its integrity and its ethical consciousness. Its very structure. And your mind was sick, Mr White, as foul and pestilent and disturbed as I’ve seen in some time. The on-going self-validating results of these studies effectively counter any chance of appeals, although those pathetic timewasters are never taken seriously. Of course, none were waged on your account.

  Jonathan White was trying to grasp at what he remembered of the life before, and found a whole mess of chunks was coming back to him. The city of Rule.

  There were others, he whispered.

  Of course, said the man. It is a community experience, after all.

  Jonathan suddenly started, blurting out. Where’s Johnny and Kidd?

  The bald man stood as stiff as a board, and was so tall he lurched o
ver Jonathan like a statue or a monster. He looked behind him again to the two guards, who stepped forward to stand at his side.

  He studied his notes and a smirk stole quickly across his face and then vanished. He scrutinised Jonathan without an ounce of warmth. A vulture at the bedside.

  The kid is safe. Jonathan is… The man leered. Jonathan is safe. He won’t be harming anyone ever again.

  Where are my friends

  The man gazed upon him cruelly, the smile still there. You don’t have any friends, Jonathan.

  Where are they

  The man leafed through a few pages. Yes, you did keep rather . . . interesting . . . company, didn’t you? You really didn’t do yourself any favours, Jonathan. But you don’t need to worry about any of that now.

  Where

  The man glanced back at his notes and smirked. Oh, I’m sure they’re buried somewhere. Probably not deep enough though.

  Jonathan felt like crying, but his body didn’t seem to know how to anymore. Why have you done this? he whimpered.

  This is less than you deserve, Jonathan. But it’s okay. It will all be over soon. At least, it will in this world. You cannot expect God to be so merciful.

  What will be over?

  Why, life, Jonathan. Life.

  All life? Jonathan looked up into that terrible face.

  Why not, Jonathan. Why not.

  Is there no hope?

  There never was, Jonathan. Hope is a fiction. You know that.

  The fantasy is everything, he mumbled.

  The warder laughed like a hound. Not for long, he said. I promise you that.

  Jonathan looked back at the ground and his body ached and shook. He felt so weak.

  What is my crime? he said at last.

  Think, Jonathan.

  Jonathan remembered, and felt a fierce well of pride and anger suddenly surge up in him. He threw down his rags. He struggled with himself but finally managed to push the sense of injustice back down. Then he looked at the floor. Is – is she okay?

  She is in the Institute. Do you know what that is?

  Jonathan did. He was remembering more and more of this life. It was called the Institutional Clinic for the Treatment, Re-Integration and Re-Education of Victims of Sexual Corruption, and it was based in London State City. Most people knew it just as the Institute. The girl he had sex with would likely be in it for life. Systematically stripped of all ounce of deviance, anything considered not moral and decent, anything felt unfitting for a loyal citizen of the Great London State. If she was ever set free she would be a sexless doll, a monogamous blank, brainwashed and bovine and even re-virginised, an artificial hymen implanted and further chemical implants disabling a high level production of hormones. She would be lucky if she ever managed to do more than chastely kiss another person again. She would marry a gentleman she felt nothing towards and be artificially impregnated by the Great London State.

  The anger bubbled up again in him, and a little seeped out his mouth. I did nothing! he cried. She was innocent!

  Those two statements hardly go together, Jonathan. Was she not underage?

  She was eighteen! She was old enough to know everything and she consented to it all!

  And yet you had no written proof of this consent! The warder gave a feral grin. Apart from the completely suspect consent – I am familiar with your case and I do believe the judge ruled against it, given that no self-respecting maiden would have consented to your acts, and the girl came from a very good family – apart from this, already enough to land you in court, I needn’t remind you, Jonathan, that the age of consent in the Great London State is twenty-one. Far too young, if you ask me. I can assume that most of your senses and memory have returned to you by now, so neither do I need to remind you that sex out of wedlock is also illegal.

  He looked once more at his clipboard and rifled through a couple of pages. Then, on top of those already severe crimes, you committed the bestial and filthy, the warder spat these two words out like they were poison, acts of the most depraved sodomy on this poor girl.

  He raised his hand and pointed his finger, as if he was the judge himself and the trial had not been over years ago. You were charged with level fourteen corruption of a minor, level three statutory rape, sexual intercourse out of wedlock, level forty-two sodomy of a minor, six counts of obscenity against moral decency, and three more counts of crimes against the State. And you were found guilty on every count! Jonathan White! Did you think you wouldn’t be found out, that you could hide your perversions? You people make me sick! The warder hocked a spray of spit at him, and then backed up, slowly cooling off and returning to his cold, stony visage.

  Alright! Jonathan yelled. I’m to blame, it’s all me! Call me a pervert and a sinner and a wicked, evil man. But leave her alone!

  The warder’s eyes felt like shards of ice as they bored into him. She was corrupted, Jonathan. She has to be restored. We undo the damage perverts and paedophiles like you do to their victims.

  She wasn’t a victim. I’m not a paedophile and she wasn’t a victim. Jonathan gave up and sank his head to the floor, his voice left mumbling things that couldn’t be heard.

  The bald, hook-nosed warder looked at him without an ounce of pity or mercy. He looked at Jonathan like one might look at a sewer rat. Then he made a gesture and the two guards approached Jonathan with batons raised in their hands. They hit out at him and he yelped like a cub and curled into a ball. They rained down blows on him, bruising through his skin and eventually cracking bones.

  May you never find peace. These were the last words he would ever hear, but whether they were those of the warder or the guards, his own inner voice, or even the voice of some overseeing deity with a stake in his eternal torment, he did not know.

  May you never find peace.

  Eventually the guards ceased their brutality, grabbing Jonathan White and pulling him by his battered, dangling arms. The warder opened the prison door and they dragged him out down a corridor. A dim light at the far end was steadily getting closer and closer. It hung above a chair set against the wall.

  Jonathan White’s eyes were nearly bloodied shut and only saw the stone blocks of the floor, but he knew where he was going. As he drifted numbly on, as if carried by angels and flying on a blanket of ice and pain, he wondered to himself if there were worse things out there than him.