“I’m Miss Temperance Turner.” she told her.
Rachel laughed. How paranoid she was being. She asked, “What department do you work in? I haven’t seen you around here much.”
Temperance nibbled on her lower lip, then replied, “I’ve noticed you many times before.” She paused, looking down at her feet. Then she continued, “I’m a Censor.”
The bell rang loud and shrill, letting them know they were now late returning to their assigned stations. They waved to each other and raced to their respective areas. Rachel noticed that Temperance took the stairs down to the Censorship Unit on the first floor. Rachel worked on the third floor. Although at times the Censors’ assignments might overlap with the work of another unit in the DOC, it didn’t happen often enough that Temperance would have had frequent opportunities to notice Rachel.
But Rachel had no time to consider these things further. Her supervisor, Mr. James Zebedee, scowled at her as she sat at her desk and began to work. She pretended he wasn’t there, and he went on his way, investigating what everyone else on the floor was doing and how they were doing it. His criticisms were often very particular and sometimes downright nonsensical. Mr. Zebedee liked to feel he was in control, though truthfully the team could do their jobs just as well without his constant hovering.
Opening the next task, Rachel examined its contents. A statistical report had shown the percentages of the population that supported the War Against Terror over a span of years from 2001 through 2042. The figure had been between ninety-two and one hundred percent since the year of the Glorious Revolution, 2018. Prior to 2018, there had been great opposition to the War, due to the influence of the Humanists on society. Statistics prior to the Glorious Revolution were tainted by an evil known as “liberal bias”, and therefore were discounted in any honest analysis. However, new evidence had cropped up that proved that every year since 2018, support for the War was always one hundred percent. The evidence was never revealed in her memo, there was nothing to support the statement, other than the word of the Profit. It was now Rachel’s task to find all references made to these statistics on the Web and “correct” them.
Rachel did as she was instructed; she did her job thoroughly and impeccably. But there was not a single moment in which Rachel believed in the task at hand. Indeed, Rachel had been growing more aware with the passage of time that much of what was on the Web was probably fabricated. She herself was an active participant in shaping the Web, in giving life to lies that would be taught through untold generations. She did not enjoy her tasks. But if she wasn’t doing them, someone else would be doing them all the same.
Pulling the Web Browser out of her pocket, she input the word “Humanist”. The definition read: “an idolater who worships human beings as the center of creation and denies the divinity of the King and his holy Profit.” Rachel sighed in frustration. She was certain that this definition had been changed since the Glorious Revolution. Momentarily, she considered checking the Intranet for further data, but realized that a Weaver like herself had long ago “corrected” that data to match the new definition. What had it meant before? Rachel decided she would ask Esther the next time they saw each other.
As Rachel put away the Web Browser into her pocket once more, she felt a folded piece of paper. She was about to fish it out when it dawned on her that the paper was probably clandestinely put in her pocket by Temperance Turner during their brief encounter in the corridor. She pretended nothing unusual had happened and completed her final task for the day. She would have to wait until she arrived home to find an opportunity to read it.
IV.
Rachel had a difficult time restraining herself from acting on her ever-increasing curiosity. The folded paper lay in her pocket, its pointed edges brushing against her hip with each step. What would the note say? She scolded herself. The paper probably was just a note about the intent to censor one of her corrections. After all, the correction she did last week on the story about the Humanist Outpost in The Leaf was pretty racy stuff. But she was merely trying to illustrate the lewd nature of the evil known as “Secular Humanism”. As she had written the piece, she felt her heart race a bit. She had wondered if she would get in trouble for it. But she also found herself getting excited about the prospect of living like she imagined they lived. It was at that moment that Rachel knew she would eventually be irretrievably in the grip of the Adversary, committing Heresy.
She resisted the urge to put her hand in her pocket and touch the mysterious paper, to reassure herself that it was real. It represented a reprieve from the ceaseless repetition of life. It held the promise of change. Was change what she wanted? She felt a twinge of guilt. Rachel knew there were others outside the Kingdom who had it much rougher than she did. She ought to be thankful that God saw fit to grant his grace to her as one of the Elect. Yet deep within her breast burned a desire she had not the words to describe or name, coupled with dissatisfaction. Were these the coils of the Adversary, wrapping around the Pearly Gates, threatening to enter and overthrow the Kingdom?
At lunch, Rachel had recited the meaning of the word ‘freedom’ that she had learned in finishing school. Mrs. Wordsworth- Esther- had shocked her by revealing that ‘freedom’ originally had nothing at all to do with economics. Yet, everyone knew that the Kingdom was exceptional. It was unique for many reasons, but specifically because of its economic system. Per the Divine Word, economies could not thrive unless there was unrestricted freedom in the marketplace. Corporations had to remain competitive lest the heathen economies outperform the Kingdom. Should corporations lose profit, the citizens of the Kingdom would suffer terribly. God’s wrath would fall on the economy for their failure to ensure the market remained unfettered. Businesses would close. The Convicted would lose jobs and become poorer. Everyone knew these were indisputable facts, and to argue against them was to appear ignorant and uneducated in the ways of economic theory. Rachel asked herself, if this were true, how had the heathen nations survived all this time under the rule of the evil known as “Democratic Socialism”?
Democratic Socialism was the theory that a society could pool its collective strength for the betterment of the entire group through elected representatives of the people. Rachel had been taught this theory was deeply flawed and morally repugnant. Making a better life for the entire society meant robbing resources from those who had worked hard, and giving it to those who were lazy, and those who the King meant to be punished for their lack of faith in the Profit. This was called “wealth redistribution”, which led to corporations and the wealthy few supporting those whom the King had deemed unfit to manage his wealth on earth. Rachel could barely think of the concept without feeling nauseous, so firmly ingrained in her were the perfect economic truths of the Kingdom. Such a blasphemy denied the right of the individual to pursue wealth, or not to pursue it and suffer the consequences. It denied the will of the King in economic affairs of individuals and nations.
However, Rachel realized that once she considered things as they were, it had always been the Convicted masses who had toiled to create the wealth, wealth that they were never allowed access to. As time had passed, the Convicted were given lower wages for their toil, for the corporations to remain ‘competitive’. But this idea couldn’t be right, Rachel considered to herself, because it would mean everything she was taught to think and believe at the finishing school was wrong. And like most people, Rachel was very uncomfortable at the prospect of having been wrong. It meant unwittingly building a life on a foundation of terrible lies.
The idea of democratically elected representatives who were to do the will of the people was less repugnant, but still a heresy. Even if the people elected their officials, nothing could occur outside the will of the King, as spoken through the Profit, and therefore whomever was elected by the people was inevitably the King’s choice from the beginning. Only the King’s will, as spoken by the Profit, was ever accomplished on earth. Even when it seemed that the word of the Profit was not being
done, there was a greater purpose for such things that would one day reveal itself.
However, if the will of the King was always done regardless, then what should it matter if the heathens believed they could be represented by their government? What difference would it make if there were regulation over the markets, or if the wealth-holders contributed more to the common good than the rest of society? If it was impossible to do anything other than the King’s will, then what did any of the toil of those within the Kingdom matter in the end?
But Rachel knew the answer to that, for one of her classmates had asked the question. It mattered that the Elect produce the fruits of the Kingdom, to awaken the truth of the Profit in the hearts of others. All people, when confronted with this truth, instantly are aware in their hearts that it is the truth. They reject it because grace has not yet been given them by the King that they may enter the Kingdom. This answer made sense at the time, but now Rachel realized that it just led back to the original question. Since grace could only be granted by the King and the King’s will is done regardless, what difference did the deeds of the Elect make?
Watching the pavement beneath her feet as she strode speedily through Trinity Square, Rachel reflected that deeds didn’t matter. All that was worthy was trust in the Profit. That trust was known to exist by the outward sign of one’s deeds. This was how the Elect recognized each other as recipients of the King’s grace. The Elect had been given grace to advance the King’s agenda on earth: dominion over the earth in the name of the Kingdom. Only when certain conditions were met would the King return, putting an end to war, terror, suffering, and misery. Everything was done for the greater good, the betterment of mankind, and the glorious future that awaited humanity. Anything done for such a noble cause, no matter how immoral, was justified, and therefore was morally correct.
If Democratic Socialism was wrong because it attempted to better the situation of mankind as a collective, then what made the Kingdom better, since its aim claimed to be the same? Fatigued by her attempts to reconcile ideas that contradicted each other but were part of the same National Truth, she tried to stop thinking altogether. Without warning, the sirens blared throughout the community. It was time for an RMS, a Random Motivational Session. Everyone who happened to be passing through the square stopped and quickly moved towards the enormous Spider-screen looming above them where the Tri-Roads met.
Immediately, images of children suffering of hunger and deprivation outside the Kingdom flashed before them. The narrator said, “Every day, as we who have been blessed by the King enjoy regular meals, children who have never heard of our Profit die of starvation. We are so fortunate, and they are being unduly punished simply because they have not heard the Truth to be able to accept it. We must remedy their spiritual situation.”
A Collection Wand now passed among those gathered in the crowd. Everyone was expected to give, and to not do so when others were watching would lead to suspicion of Heresy. Each person, with tears in their eyes, scanned their Safechips and tapped the wand a certain number of times, showing the amount to be withdrawn from their credit accounts. The Narrator continued, “Give now. Give to the Profit Fund, dedicated to revealing truth and bringing in all the Elect from all corners of the world.”
Rachel noticed Temperance in the crowd just behind her to the left. She wondered where Temperance lived. It would be a sweet irony if they lived in the same building. Such a thing was entirely possible as people were encouraged to keep others at a safe distance. One never knew who might secretly be a Heretic in their hearts. Heretics met in small, unapproved, unsanctioned groups in private domiciles. Why risk having a get-together with other Elect if it might mean being mistaken for heretics? Temperance took the wand, scanned her wrist, and tapped it six times without any fanfare. That was commendable.
Sixty credits was an enormous sum and those who gave more to the Profit’s Fund usually made a big show of their support in public. When the wand made its way to Rachel, she scanned her wrist and tapped it but once. She entertained serious doubts about the Profit’s Fund, though she would never openly admit this. If sharing were indeed robbing oneself, then was this not a form of theft by mass coercion? Rachel didn’t mind giving to the hungry children, though some of them appeared to already be of working age at six years old. Most were still standing and had the use of their hands. She was torn between sympathy for their plight and what she had been taught was morally proper. Rachel felt like a hypocrite, betraying all that had been pounded into her head at finishing school, as she donated to the fund while standing under a banner proclaiming the National Truth that read, “Those who shall not work shall not eat”. But she doubted the children would receive any benefit from it, spiritual or physical. There was, after all, no proof that the Profit ever used the credits for their stated purpose.
The Narrator continued, stating statistics proving that the Kingdom was the best place in the world to live, that her people were the best educated, brightest, wealthiest, healthiest, and her soldiers the mightiest to ever trample the foe. Its corporations were the most efficient; its economy the strongest. All of this was continued proof of the blessings poured down on the Elect thanks to the King and his Profit. Anyone who did not feel pride, utter devotion; anyone who was not wild about the Kingdom, was a Heretic. The crowd cheered wildly in agreement, some glancing about to make sure no one was out of step. Some looked around to make sure everyone else could see how patriotic they were. Rachel cheered wildly and chanted “We’re number one!” repeatedly with the assembled multitude. She knew that she could not determine if any of the statistics were true, but she also couldn’t prove they weren’t true, either. As she pretended to be caught up in the spirit of the crowd, she became caught up in the spirit of the crowd.
“We are the last, best hope for mankind,” the Narrator went on, “but we are threatened by those who would destroy us utterly. Terrorists even now plot to rape our women and enslave our children to their false god!” The Narrator’s voice became gruff as he screamed the last part in a frenzy. An image of a terrorist appeared before them, his eyes betraying a zealous insanity like that of Hillary. The gathered throng booed and jeered at the image, some throwing things in its general direction. Pictures of the fallen Kingdom citizens of 9-11 and the Mass Destruction of 2017 caused wrath to bubble up among them as the booing became more intense. Rachel tugged at her hair and clothing as she screamed, releasing the pent-up frustrations within her. She glanced at Temperance and felt an urge to rip her clothing off, then violently bludgeon her to death with a nearby brick as she lay on top of her naked body. She shook it off, but was unable to turn away from her. Temperance was in the throes of her own release, but then peered across the crowd at Rachel. Having locked their gazes on to each other, each continued to frenzy along with the others around them. The others that surrounded them were in their own inner world of unbridled urges coming to the fore. But Rachel and Temperance were there together, however far apart they were physically. Eyes locked, each of them ran their hands desperately up and down the length of their torsos, crying out frantically as the images evoked horror and outrage. They fell to their knees, emotion overtaking them, and toppled to the ground. The mass of people was jerking about and speaking gibberish around them, but Rachel and Temperance were focused on each other. Within the core of her being, Rachel felt her muscles tense, and a hot rush of pleasure overtook her.
She gasped repeatedly for air as she rode the wave to its end. Panting, she lay still, watching Temperance become submerged by the wave that had built up inside herself. A few moments later, the others began to regain their senses. The Narrator announced the session was completed. Each person gathered their composure, and silently walked away. Once Rachel had risen from the cold, hard ground, she saw that Temperance had already fled the area.
Smoothing out the folds of her dress, Rachel continued her way home as if nothing unusual had happened. Indeed, nothing unusual had occurred. The RMS had always been a wild experi
ence, a few minutes in which everything they kept bottled inside could find a way to be released at long last. Everyone looked forward to RMS. But Rachel had never experienced such raw, primal, sexual release at a session. And she knew that Temperance had felt it too.
When John had made love to her, he had done so through a hole in a white, clean sheet, in the darkness. He always referred to the act as his “duty to the Kingdom”. He ordered her to get undressed and hide under the sheet, with the hole in the proper position.
Rachel always did as he asked. She hated it when he became angry. It became violent trouble, and Rachel spent their married life together avoiding that kind of trouble. Usually, he destroyed things that were sentimental to her, or that were costly to replace. When he wasn’t violent, he said the cruelest things to her. And when he was in a good mood, he merely criticized her every move, her every trait. Nothing was ever good enough for John Wright. He only ever hit her twice. The first time he swore it had been an accident. The second time, he punched her in the lower abdomen, and wouldn’t let her see a doctor. She didn’t speak to him for a week. But he made it up to her. He always made it up to her, with presents and sweet words. But the making up never lasted. It wasn’t long till he was back to his old ways.
Once, as her husband was performing his duty upon her, she began to fantasize about a tall, handsome stranger, and imagine in her mind this was a random encounter with a man she grabbed off the street. She began wildly thrusting against him, wrapping her legs around him and pulling him deeper into her with her hands on his buttocks. She made noises she had never made before, abandoning herself to her fantasy. John Wright remained hard, but was having trouble climaxing. This was fine for her, as this extended the sex act and enable her to experience her first and, until the RMS today, only sense of sexual pleasure. After it was over, he extricated himself from her trembling limbs quickly, grabbed his pants and went into the bathroom. When he returned, he took his belt to her lower abdomen, then flipped her over and slapped it across her buttocks and upper thighs. He called her a whore. He called her a sinner and a perverse temptress, a daughter of Eve.
2042: An American 1984-Dystopian Thriller Page 4
