by D. A. Maddox
“Let’s go, Veronica,” he said, reaching for her. “Time to face the music.”
****
Scott hadn’t checked his phone in hours. It was standard practice when he was at work on a project. Here, in the 3D sim labs of the Colby building, he’d left it powered off and buried deep in the second of three duffel bags he had propped up against one warehouse-length wall in its expansive basement.
Here, Scott could digitally recreate his imaginary school, life-sized and ready for the exploring, one or two rooms at a time. He could layer it with details. On his laptop, which he had propped up on a nearby snack table, he could order up a classroom and change the color of the chairs. He could conjure the gymnasium and hang championship banners from the walls. He could walk through these places, add sound effects like echo to his own voice, crowd chatter, whatever he wanted.
It was, indeed, a classroom that he had placed right inside the back entrance to the basement. Above him, other students and professors were as busy as ever on any given Monday, using the rest of the building for whatever standard, scheduled classes were on tap for the day. But the third and fourth year undergrad architectural students were each allowed to reserve time in the basement lab for “project confirmations”.
He’d bribed extra hours from a fellow junior—claiming he had procrastinated and needed extra time. And that was actually true, but in the time he’d already been here, he’d busted his ass, made that first hour count for three, and pretty much caught himself up. The concession had set him back a hundred bucks, but Scott was content. With Corky’s willing assistance—who was only too ready to re-normalize their friendship, for the benefit of the crew team if nothing else—he’d even lugged in a couple of real articles of furniture. Those weren’t for the project, though.
It probably would have been smart, he reflected, to come here earlier, but he’d gotten it done. And he and Savannah had quite enjoyed their three games of miniature golf. He’d won two of them, not that it mattered much. It was just kind of difficult for him to shake that ultra-competitive upbringing of his, even on a date. More importantly, they’d gotten to talk—about a whole hell of a lot of nothing, just as he had wanted before they’d gotten themselves ensnared with The Select.
Subtly, cleverly—and these things were not easy to achieve with Savannah for a girlfriend, who must have had two digits worth of IQ points over him—he’d gotten some much coveted information out of her, too. He was proud of himself for that. Oh, but he hoped and prayed she would enjoy the surprise he had planned for her.
He turned a circle, master of all he surveyed in the phantom world he had created, then turned the whole thing off and went to his duffel bags. He rooted around with both hands in the middle one until he found his phone, drew it out, and powered it on. He expected a message from Savannah—and there was one—but, inevitably, his real attention went first to the one from “United States Government, Federal BBR”:
Scott Lachance, attached to this message please find a time-dissolvable document and read it in full before it expires five minutes after opening. Do not screenshot it or duplicate it or share by word of mouth its contents in whole or in part to anyone, under penalty of arrest. You are not in trouble, but the enforcement division of the Office of Behavior Reformation would like to extend to you an invitation, an opportunity to serve as a volunteer in the judicial correction of one Veronica Selena Jada Cruz for offenses that, in part, were committed against your person. The attachment includes all necessary contact information. Please reply “Accept” or “Decline” before 9 PM EST to avoid a personal summons. This is your only obligation. Do consider carefully. Sincerely, P. Lavallee, U.S. Bureau of Behavior Reformation, Counselor.
“Really?” he said aloud, pacing—fuming—and thought, How about I reply, Fuck you, P. Lavallee and the United States Government? Got Part 2 of a date tonight with the best girl in the world, and that leaves no time for you. Also, I don’t give a shit about Veronica Selena Jada Four-Name Bitch Cruz.
Instead, he replied “Decline,” and deleted the attachment without opening it.
Then he opened Savannah’s message.
Hey, Scott. Been a weird, weird night so far. We still good for the ‘surprise’ you promised me? XOXO.
The message was fifteen minutes old. He wasted no time:
Not only yes, but HELL, YES. And we’ll talk about our weird night after. Had one of my own. The temp code on the basement door is 98102. Let me know when you’re close. Hugs. P.S.—When you’re through the door, just play along.
He waited.
Savannah: Oh, my God. So nervous now!
Scott: Excellent. You should be. Love you.
Then he hurried back to duffel bag number one to get changed.
****
“Shoes,” the officer named Davies said for a greeting. He hadn’t introduced himself—his name was on the uniform—and he hadn’t asked who she was. “Anything in your pockets, that goes, too.”
He stood behind a table, which Veronica faced, holding the Consequences, Live! hat in her hand. He had thinning hair, a struggling moustache. Beady little pervert eyes. An asshole, in a word.
To her right was a metal detector, not that she had anything metal on her. She rubbed her wrists, which still had pink rings from the cuffs, loosened though they had been. The clomp of Gillis’s bootsteps over the bright white floor tiles grew fainter with each step.
She slipped out of her sneakers, laying them on the table.
“Nothing in your pockets?”
“No, sir.”
“You look like you have an attitude. Let’s hear you talk some more. Tell me everything you have.”
Veronica took a breath, strove for patience. “I don’t have anything, sir.”
“Really? What’s covering your tits, then?”
Veronica stared at him—but then she answered, “I have a shirt—”
“Is that all? I’m not getting even a hint of nipple tension through that shirt of yours.”
And he was definitely looking for one.
“Officer, sir, I have a shirt, and a bra, this ridiculous ballcap, these jeans and socks, and … panties, sir.”
“You on the rag? Fuck-all timing, if you are.”
What the hell? Who the fuck do you think you—
“You are Inmate 197, and you answer in the third person.”
Veronica stood there, paralyzed with shock. She felt the blush come on, being spoken to like this. She had spoken to people like this, but that—well, that had been different. That had been her doing it, playing her role. People expected it of her.
Her mouth opened and closed. She couldn’t answer that question. It was none of his business—and the way he wanted her to do it…
“What’s the matter, 197? Speak up.”
“It’s demeaning, sir.”
He snickered. “Oh, bullshit. One more chance. Are you, or are you not, on the rag, Inmate 197?”
“I—”
“I said ‘third person,’ 197. Fucking do as you’re told.”
“Inmate 197 is not … on the rag, sir,” Veronica finally managed, wiping a tear with a finger. “Inmate 197 asks permission to ask a question, sir.”
“Oh? This should be interesting. Okay, you get one. Go.”
“Inmate 197 wonders why she is not being processed by a woman, sir.”
“Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re in for a rough couple of days, 197. I get all of the afternoon and early evening weekday intakes, kiddo. Processing and interview is after that—and I’m not a part of it, if it makes you feel any better. Step under the arch, stop for three seconds, and proceed to the other side.”
His answer didn’t, in truth, surprise her. She’d seen the Schulsky segment, after all, and fundamentally understood she had no reasonable expectation for the preservation of any of her dignity. It was just hard to make the understanding real in her mind. Her brain was still in rebellion.
“Inmate 197 wishes to make her phone cal
l to—”
“That right does not extend to transitionals. Sorry, not sorry. Under the arch, 197.”
She did as she was told. Saw the wall cameras automatically train on her. The far end of the hall in front of her ended at a T-section, passages to the right and left. But directly ahead it simply widened out into an open bathroom. A toilet unit with a curtain rod. Communal showers. One of these had a privacy partition on three sides, as well as a see-through plastic bag with something red on the inside. She hoped the partitioned stall was for her.
“Those are your jail clothes,” Officer Davies said, coming alongside of her and pointing to the bag. “I’ve alerted the senior punishment warden that you’re here—so get your ass down there and clean yourself up good. You get the curtain and the wall because management usually prefers the first stripping of our inmates be caught on camera for the home audience. They like to see that first embarrassment, our home audience. So, there’s that for you to look forward to.”
Veronica blinked, taking it in, saying nothing.
“Use the shitter first, if you can. Don’t forget to scrub your douche landing good and proper, then core that bunghole with soap. You’ll find a sign on the wall with instructions and a sack with everything you need hanging from the showerhead. Leave everything you own outside the curtain, including your tit net and squirrel cover. You wear only the given uniform, and you wear all of it, including that hat. Right?”
“Right, sir,” she said, thinking that when she made it to her cell, if there was anything to write on, she’d get to work recreating every awful thing he had said to her. She’d show it to Ms. Tulane after her release, to see if he’d broken any prisoner treatment laws.
She proceeded down the hall alone, followed only by wall cameras on swivels. She drew the curtain for the toilet, doing what she could. She ducked behind the partition and only got undressed when Davies’s view was sufficiently obstructed. She tossed her possessions over the top of the partition and took her shower. She cleaned herself everywhere, exactly as she’d been told, exactly as the sign said.
This is taking the whole obedience trip a little far, she thought, bent over with her eyes shut and shampoo still in her hair, applying soap where she’d never applied it in the past. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
But she did—and she did it well. She didn’t dare not to.
****
“Your stop word is…” Scott had started, lining his putter up carefully, trying to think on both things at once.
“Constantinople,” Savannah had finished for him, distracting him, making him miss wide left and then laughing at him. “And my slow word is ‘Agrippa’. He was an architect.”
“What? Jesus, Savannah.”
“Yeah. Listen, it helps me stay in the game. I say ‘Stop!’ it’s just the game and you keep going. I scream, ‘It hurts!’ and it’s just the game. You keep going. I yell ‘Constantinople!’ you back the fuck up and apologize. Kind of hard to get lost in a gray area if that’s the word.”
“Fine,” Scott said. “Do me a favor, then?”
“Sure.”
“Wear a skirt. Don’t ask why. It’s important.”
“Oh—and if I say ‘Mercy’, you can go a bit harsher.”
Scott raised his eyebrows.
Savannah shrugged. “Call it an ‘amplification word’. Can’t see why others don’t have them.”
Now she stood in front of the keypad at the back door of the Colby building, her bare calves and shins tingling in a cool spring wind at night. Her pointer finger hovered over the numbers. Her knees nearly knocked together with trepidation. This was definitely rule breaking.
It felt good. She typed the number 98102—and passed inside to the world Scott had prepared for her.
****
The jumpsuit was red. It zipped up the middle over a loose, white halter top. The undies, too, were plain and unadorned white. The shoes were like thick-layered papier-mâché. Clearly disposable.
Veronica didn’t like wearing the hat. She did not do hats. And the logo was a celebration of her undoing and a mockery, and also a reminder of her imminent public shaming.
She put it back on.
I’m in costume, she thought, and felt her lower core heat just a little at the realization.
Because this was not a costume. It was a uniform, one she was beginning to suspect she had earned. This was not a game, not a charade. It was the first consequence imposed on her by a society that had turned on her and would now have their pound of flesh.
Kind of hot, in a weird way.
Veronica, stop! What would Mother—
Slow, deliberate steps. Boots with low heels visible on the other side of the partition—different from the boots Officers Gillis and Davies had worn. The cuffs of black slacks, just touching the buckle on the arches of the boots.
A slightly accented voice, contralto, highly articulated syllables.
“Come out, Veronica Cruz. Let me have a look at you in person, see that you have been fitted properly.”
Female. Soft with command in a way Veronica had never heard before. It was the voice of a mother you could go crying to for help—but who would also not hesitate to turn you over her knee and spank that ass no more, and no less, than the transgression called for.
It was nothing at all like her actual mother’s.
She came out right away, arms crossed protectively over her chest—even though, strictly speaking, she was covered more completely than was normal for her—and with her head down.
“Look at me, Veronica. I will not bite you.”
Veronica looked. The woman before her was in her thirties, her rich brown hair—done up in a bun—a perfect match to her eyes. Her uniform was all black, short sleeved. She was sturdily built but not overweight. The nameplate over her left breast read—
“I am Helena Reyes-Garcia, the senior punishment warden of this facility. I am also a registered nurse and in charge of much of the preliminary interviewing here at Huntington. The young men in my care know me only as Matron. But I think I shall have you call me Madam Reyes-Garcia, as a reminder of who is in charge here. Let me hear you say it.”
“Yes, Madam Reyes-Garcia,” Veronica quietly said.
“Such a pretty voice for one who is said to be such an intolerable bitch-witch. We shall be getting to know each other quite well shortly. I confess you are a frustrating case at the outset—but this is not truly your fault, my young cumquat. There is much I do not know and am not permitted to ask you.”
Veronica kept silent. She knew the rules, and she had not been asked a direct question.
“We shall be going to the interview room from here. Later, my husband will resume charge of you—but to begin, I have one very important question. There will be no punishment for an honest answer, whichever it may be. I wish only to understand what challenges you will present to us both. So tell me, Miss Veronica Cruz, is it your intention to be a compliant little snatch hatch, or are you going to be a brat?”
Honesty, she asked for. Veronica thought about it.
“I don’t know yet, Madam Reyes-Garcia,” she said at length.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia smiled. “I think we are going to get along famously,” she said. “Come this way, please.”
Chapter Twenty-Three:
Amplification
Savannah Miles stepped under the threshold and felt as though she had slipped through a Door of Time. She was in a high school classroom, distinguished from the college lecture halls she’d grown accustomed to by its smallness, its squareness, and by the two-piece chair and desk units—only one of which, right in the middle, was unoccupied. In twenty-four seats sat twenty-four teenage girls and boys, all hard at work on a multi-page study packet of some kind. They didn’t acknowledge her entry, and when Savannah turned, she could not see the door that led back to the outside. Ahead of her, though, near the front of the room and in the righthand corner, was a different door, presumably leading to the hallway.
They
wore uniforms, like all preparatory high school kids did, white shirts with elbow-length sleeves, ties, slacks for the boys, skirts for the girls. They were dead silent, even though there was no teacher in the room that Savannah could see.
She came up behind one, passing her hand clear through the head of one of the girls.
Wow, she thought. The Colby lab’s holo-sims are no freakin’ joke. And you must have worked yourself silly on this, Scott.
On the board, words appeared, as though quickly typewritten on the spot:
You’re cheating, Miss Savannah.
She jerked her hand back as though she’d burned it. “Miss Savannah”, it called her, the typical teacher address—Miss or Mister, then the first name. Savannah’s hands fluttered at the sides of her skirt, which was ordinary blue denim. She hated skirts. She was wearing the only one she owned.
Over the empty desk, in empty space, a pointing red arrow appeared, suggesting she should sit there. The tip of the arrow was like a backwards heart. She went to the desk, touching the chair to make sure that it was real. She sat down in it and checked the study packet.
Three sentences: You feel guilty today. You wrote a paper and failed to cite your sources. You’re afraid you will be caught.
That particular transgression was unthinkable to her. It wasn’t just wrong—it was lazy.
Her lower lip trembled.
Overhead, the P.A. system clicked on with a static pop and crackle. An old woman’s voice. School secretary?
“Savannah Miles to the office of Headmaster Lachance, please. Savannah Miles to the office.”
Every head in the room turned to her. Everyone pointed at her, and because her desk was in the very middle of the classroom, she instantly found herself hemmed in on all sides by accusatory fingers.
As one, they chorused, “Oooooooo.”
Savannah stood up, trying to steady her breath. She’d been found out. She palmed her cheek, and hurried toward the next backward-heart arrow, which was over the door to the hallway. Twenty-four fingers followed her…
