“Um, Rico,” the boy with the black mustache and blond wig said.
“Correct,” said the third boy; the one with the blond beard who had not put makeup over his Beta tattoo. “Oh, I’m Lance,” he said before attempting a leer while wiggling his black eyebrows.
“So, Rico, which of these fine young ladies suits you?” Michael asked, letting Sara and the other Actresses know which customer was the important one. Sara had already pegged ‘Lance’ as a tag-along.
“The Force seems strong in this one,” Rico said, pointing at Nana.
Crap! How can you spend these kinds of credits and not bother to learn the theme?
After an eye-blink and quick recovery, Nana said, “Oh Honey, ya’ll don’t even know the Force ‘til you been on the dance floor wit’ Nana.” She took Rico by the hand and out to the dance floor.
May froze, her eyes wide and lower lip pressed under white teeth. Sara knew May was not skilled enough to be acting the part of a shy Twentieth girl.
“I’m Sara,” Sara said in her best bubbly persona and holding her hand out to be kissed.
“Yo,” Lance said and repeated the leer and eyebrow thing.
“Yeah, well why don’t we get the ladies settled in before we worry about dancing, Lance?” Michael led them to one of the dozen or so tables around the dance floor. An unpleasant Rap piece followed I Wanna Hold Your Hand as the DJ welcomed everyone to the Prom. The night’s theme was “Fish Under the Sea” which made no sense to Sara, but there had to be hundreds of videos she hadn’t seen. A few of the Alpha customers laughed, so she assumed it was clever.
Sara led Lance out to dance once. He was a dreadful dancer, trying to grind against Sara and constantly wiggling his eyebrows. She also danced with Rico, who had at least studied and seemed to enjoy the slow dances. Rico had been dazzled by Nana and spent most of the evening dancing with her.
Eventually Lance realized his grinding and eyebrows didn’t make Sara want to risk an unauthorized pregnancy, so he huddled with the equally bewildered May and both dropped persona.
Michael sat next to Sara and took her hand, there to keep the Prom atmosphere and ready to help Rico out if needed. They were now simply props, Sara’s favorite time in an appointment.
A sad-looking Lance slipped out as Rico led Nana to dance again. May played with the long black strands of her wig.
“So, how many of the old videos do you have?” Michael asked.
“Eight,” Sara whispered. Even here, admitting to owning illegal videos seemed a risk.
“I have eleven. We should get together and watch sometime.”
“Yes. Research is smart. Professional,” Sara answered.
“Research be damned,” Michael snapped. “I want to sit with you and hold your hand. You’ll wear a dress and I’ll stroke your hair and we can be like real people, not Citizens.”
“Stop it!” Sara hissed.
“No. Even if we have to sneak around, set our windows to full opaque and play Loyalty tunes loud enough to make people in the next modules think we’re joining a Volunteer Brigade, I want to spend time with you as a man with a woman. We can be like it was in old America, Warriors and Goddesses. Bold men and amazing, beautiful women allowed to be . . .”
“Amazing?” Sara whispered. It thrilled Sara to her core. Clearly letting the world see mere Deltas pretending to be more than Deltas was a quick trip to the inside of a Re-education Center. But, to spend a few hours with a man, to be lithe and coy and treasured just for being herself and not an asset to the State. Her head spun.
The music stopped as Michael Jackson’s lyrics gave way to the Vincent Price monologue. The lights brightened and an “Outcast” replaced the DJ.
“Citizens, we’ve gotten word that State Security has been tipped off about our little drama. Customers, come over to the table where you got your name tags, we have a shuttle ready to take you to the Sharing Rally and witnesses who will testify they were with you the whole evening. Actors and Actresses, you know the drill. Your credits have already been deposited. The exit tunnels are now open.”
Rico ran to the table, rubbing the makeup off of his Alpha tattoo, Nana in tow. “Where’s 511-M? My father is a Colonel in State Security. We’ll all be safe.”
Nana kissed Rico on the cheek, then said, “Don’t worry about us, honey. Like the man said, we know the drill. Just git over there by the entrance and they’ll make sure nothin’ bad happens to you.”
Sara met Michael and Nana at the south corner of the second sub-basement. Actors, Actresses and Security, now bald and in shapeless tunics entered the tunnels leading to alleys and food center cellars. They could blend into the Sharing Rally or enter slide-walks from dozens of poorly watched locations.
821-M gripped 316-F’s hand one last time before heading up a poorly lit stairwell near Saint Mao Park.
“Goddesses and Warriors,” she whispered as she proceeded down the tunnel under a popular Delta relaxation center.
About Chris Donahue
Chris Donahue is an electrical engineer working in Dallas. A former Navy avionics tech and life-long history buff, he writes short stories in fantasy, science fiction, horror, humor and military adventure as well as non-fiction features. His first novel will be out in early 2017.
Room to Breathe
Marina Fontaine
Daniel walked slowly up the steps to the Guillotine. The name was both too dramatic and not dramatic enough. No one died from using the device, at least not physically. What it did to their spirit was another matter.
Most students averted their eyes, embarrassed. He had seen their first, unguarded responses: eyebrows raised in surprise, surreptitious smiles, nods of understanding. For a while, he dared to hope. Then the results came in. Everyone had good reasons to vote as expected, and he should have known better.
The Pioneers wanted to keep their elevated status. The Holdouts were scared to attract any more negative attention. The rest simply wanted to graduate with minimum effort. No one would speak up and risk trouble for something as trivial as a piece of art.
He glanced at the banner above the podium. He had read the words hundreds of times, but familiarity did not make the statement seem any less absurd.
“Great art must necessarily portray defeat and ultimate destruction of the human spirit.”
On the first day of class, the teacher explained how this statement from a literature critic could apply equally well to visual arts. Daniel never understood the necessity to defeat their spirits any further. Had they not already been beaten down enough?
He would not get his answer today. Right now he had to deal with a more immediate problem. He had almost reached the steps leading to the raised display area at the front of the classroom and still found no way to escape.
Tamara, whose painting had been voted the best, finished putting it up on the display board and passed him on her way down the steps. There was neither malice nor triumph in her eyes. She gave him a sympathetic nod and moved on. Tamara was a talented artist, and her painting of a crushed butterfly was devastatingly realistic. Daniel returned the nod and smiled to reassure her there were no hard feelings involved. Then he slowly approached the large desk where his painting had been laid out next to the paper cutter.
The theme of the project, assigned two weeks ago, was “Everything Dies,” and Daniel had scoured the streets of his neighborhood for a suitable subject. He came across plenty of possibilities. Dead insects crushed under the shoes of pedestrians. Dead stray animals rotting in alleys. Dead plants, originally brought in to create a more cheerful environment, but slowly succumbing to disease and neglect … And then he saw it: a dried out, deformed lilac tree with a short, thin new sprout coming out from the side. A sliver of life stretching stubbornly towards the sun, tiny greenish buds eager to open. Death in all its depressing, implacable certainty—and new hope springing from within. Everything died, but life went on, even here in the grim shadow of City buildings.
He felt exhilarated a
s he tried to capture every detail, first on a sketch pad, standing in the middle of the street and ignoring annoyed glances from pedestrians, and later at home. He opened the new set of paints his parents had bought for his fifteenth birthday, happy to use his best materials for this project. He was sure his fellow students would appreciate what he was trying to do and share in his excitement.
He had been almost right.
Looking at his doomed painting, Daniel felt a surge of pride. He had conveyed the original idea and evoked the exact reaction he intended. Might that be enough? Was it OK to now destroy this piece to avoid wasting hours in counseling? Hours better spent creating something new?
He took a deep breath, stepped closer to the desk and put his hand on the lever of the Guillotine—
And found he could not bring himself to lift it. The smooth metal handle might as well have weighed a hundred pounds as far as his suddenly unresponsive arm was concerned. Anger rose up, overcoming his rational side. Why should he do it? Why couldn’t they let him be? His hand, no longer frozen on the lever handle, had formed into a fist, although he had no idea whom or what he wanted to strike.
“Citizen O’Malley, is there a problem?” The fake concern in the teacher’s voice and the insipid little smile that never reached her flat eyes had been almost too much. He probably would have lashed out at her and taken the consequences, but the thought of what it would do to his parents stopped him in his tracks.
He attempted to take another deep breath, but the familiar tightness in his chest made it impossible. Great timing. He could, of course, ask to leave the room and use the inhaler. It would buy him a few minutes, yet solve nothing.
“I … I’m sorry,” he blurted out, shaking his head. “Why can’t I just take it home, keep it for myself?”
The teacher gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, Citizen, surely you paid attention in history classes? We have the Rules for a reason, especially when it comes to art. But if you wish … Citizen Watson, would you please help your Friend complete the assignment?”
He remembered having friends. Small “f.” Big difference. They were independent connections, unplanned and unapproved, and so could not be tolerated. It had now been two years since the new Productive Association Rule (PAR) was implemented in his school. It was hailed as a way to reduce distractions and teach the value of teamwork. In reality, the system mostly served to make sure no one got out of line. Every Friend (big “F”) in an assigned group was held responsible for any one member’s defiance. The offenders could then be punished in the manner decided by their group. A quick beating on the way home was usually the start, and it would get worse from there.
It was empowering.
It was fair.
It was a way to prepare them for the real world.
From what Daniel had seen of the real world, the last part was certainly true. As for the rest … He was a Holdout, and neither power nor fairness would ever come his way.
Daniel watched as Patrick Watson, the leader of his Friends group and a son of a well-known Pioneer family, bounded up the steps. Daniel would now be expected to move out of the way and allow a Friend to do his duty. And still he hesitated.
Patrick gave him a hard look that should have cowed him immediately, but he noticed something else. Beneath the veneer of confidence and physical menace hid a tinge of fear.
Pioneers were leaders in the community, a reward for being the first to move from their suburban homes into the newly designed Cities. However, the status was easily revoked should they fail in their leadership duties. In this upside-down world, Daniel had no power over his own life, but creating problems for others was easy. Right now, he could refuse to obey. What would happen? Another beating? More visits to the counselor’s office? He almost smiled, realizing how little he had to lose.
He felt his breathing become steady again, and his mind came back into focus. There was a simple solution to his dilemma after all.
“Thank you, Friend. I will complete this task on my own.” Daniel formally inclined his head, enjoying the look of confusion on Patrick’s face, and put his hand back on the Guillotine’s lever handle. This time, he lifted it with no effort and felt no emotion as strips of paper that had once been his greatest achievement fluttered into the wastebasket.
Students were filing slowly out of the classroom. Many were stopping by his desk, making sympathetic noises and occasionally giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. On any other day, Daniel would have welcomed the support, but now he needed to be left alone. He pretended to re-arrange the items on his desk, then to search for something inside his backpack—all to discourage any additional contact and the resulting delay. Finally the room was empty except for the teacher, but Daniel knew of a quick way to make her depart.
He coughed and clutched at his chest. He did not need to entirely fake it. His symptoms were getting worse, and he was likely to have an attack sometime before making it home. No harm in taking the medicine now, to aid in his plan.
The teacher eyed him from her desk with mild annoyance as he pulled the inhaler out of his pocket.
“Are you OK?” she asked, belatedly, as if realizing she was expected to show concern.
Daniel took a single puff from the device and glanced at the dose counter. Only ten more doses left, with almost a full month before the Health Board guidelines would allow a refill. That was a problem for later.
“Yes, thank you,” he smiled at the teacher. “Could I stay here a few minutes? I get dizzy sometimes, from the medicine.”
The teacher regarded him for a moment, but finally nodded. “Sure. Just lock the door when you’re done.”
Daniel suppressed a smile. That was almost too easy.
When the PAR system was first introduced, Daniel would receive regular punishments from his Group, both for real transgressions and because he made an easy target. One of their favorite techniques was to scatter the contents of his backpack on the floor and push him around while he was busy collecting his possessions. After a few weeks he bought a few plastic pouches to hold all of the smaller items. He still remembered the anger on his tormentors’ faces when he quickly grabbed the pouches off the floor and walked away before they managed to have any fun at his expense. He did not avoid a beating that day, but he did get to keep some of his pride. And it was enough.
He still kept using the pouches, partly out of habit, but also to remind himself that bullies could be outsmarted. Today he was glad to have one on hand.
Daniel waited to make sure the teacher was out of hearing range, and then dashed to the wastebasket. He worked quickly, carefully pulling out each strip of paper and placing it in the pouch. He counted the strips to make sure he had collected every one. Eight … Nine …
“What are you doing, O’Malley?” Patrick’s voice startled him, but not enough to break his concentration.
… Ten.
Crap.
Daniel put the last piece in the pouch, zipped it up, and pushed back the panic. His Friend was here to punish him for challenging the classroom rules today. Nothing more to worry about.
“Leaving.” He was about to drop the pouch into the safety of the backpack when Patrick caught his wrist.
“What’s this?”
“Something that’s not yours.” Daniel tried to hold on, but the pressure on his wrist made it impossible. The pouch slipped out of his fingers, and Patrick snatched it away.
Daniel lunged at Patrick, aiming a fist at his midsection. The punch barely connected, but it was enough to make his opponent’s arm come down. Daniel grabbed the pouch—
And left his own midsection exposed. Within seconds, he was bent over in pain, gagging and gasping for air. His knees buckled, he caught another hard blow to the stomach, and then went all the way down. The pouch was somehow still in his hand, but would not be for long.
Daniel hit the floor and clenched his teeth to keep from whimpering in despair. Patrick bent down, gripped his wrist with one hand, and started prying
his fingers off the pouch with the other.
“What’s going on?”
A counselor’s voice echoed in the empty classroom. Even in his miserable state, Daniel could see the terror in Patrick’s eyes. School policies provided for a slew of penalties for fighting on school property. They turned a blind eye to the beatings and humiliations taking place daily as part of the PAR program, but a scuffle in plain sight of a school official could not be ignored. While his Friend and the counselor both contemplated their options, Daniel took hold of Patrick’s arm with his free hand and pulled himself up off the floor.
He felt unsteady on his feet, his breath coming in small gasps and waves of nausea rising from his aching stomach, but the sick appearance provided a perfect cover.
“I … had an attack, a really bad one. Patrick was passing by, so he wanted to make sure I’m OK.”
The counselor narrowed her eyes in suspicion, and Patrick looked dumbfounded. Before either of them could respond, Daniel dropped the pouch inside the backpack and stumbled away.
No one followed or even called after him. As much as he hated school, sometimes it was nice to see just how predictable everyone was.
Daniel stopped off at his apartment only long enough to pick up the supplies he needed for the job. He felt guilty for taking Dad’s expensive book glue. Paper books had been banned under the Rules, but collecting and restoring them was a common hobby among otherwise compliant adults. He would have to explain himself to Dad later, but it could not be helped. He took the service stairs to the roof of the apartment building, found a sheltered spot where he did not have to worry about a gust of wind blowing away his papers, and set to work.
Gluing strips of the painting onto a sheet of stiff paper was a tedious process, but he felt pure joy at seeing his art come back to life. He hummed an old rock tune, the one about refusing to die, that seemed fitting for this particular occasion. For a while nothing else mattered except the painting before his eyes and the song in his head, and he was finished in what seemed like no time at all.
Freedom's Light: Short Stories Page 12
