Stateless, Book 1

by Meli Raine

  Janice’s shame has no heat. Instead, it is acrid, with a tang, like opening your mouth in an orange grove before the citrus is ripe, inhaling it one inch before a fruit. The shame makes your eyes water, your balls crawl up, as if seeking the sanctuary of the body.

  Except even our bodies are not ours.

  Our bodies are not sanctuaries. Janice, especially, is learning that lesson right now as she fights to keep her eyes open, but dead. That is the only way that she can survive this.

  She won’t be whole. None of us are whole, but that is in service to The Mission. We must be impervious when we’re released to the world. The only way to overthrow a society is to rise above it, to find its weaknesses and exploit them. None of us are ready to go out into the world yet, for we are still weak and we can still be exploited.

  Janice is proof of this truth.

  And if my true self is ever revealed, so am I.

  As Janice’s cheeks flush and the skin around her nose expands in an attempt to control what she’s feeling in her body, we are all reminded by this visual display. This is what weakness looks like as it is exorcised.

  In biblical terms, we all have original sin. It must be extracted from us.

  We don’t find salvation in accepting a Christ figure and asking for absolution. No. We’re taught that the way to get rid of our weakness, our sin that came with us the day we were born, is to have it revealed to the trainers, revealed to ourselves, and meticulously rooted out.

  That is how we will go out into the world and change everything.

  This is how we will topple governments.

  This is how we will uproot societies.

  This is how we will change the structure to what is better, to what is needed.

  And we will prevail.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Kina watching me. To an outsider, we’re staring straight ahead. To the two of us, we are engaged in an intense gaze.

  The pulse at the base of Janice’s throat picks up, spasming in erratic patterns. She does not make a single sound. Even her breathing is still controlled. There is no way to know where she is in the trajectory of her orgasm.

  We know about this. Biology is taught to us. Sexuality is most certainly taught to us as a tool for controlling others. But in order to control others, you must be able to control yourself.

  Janice failed.

  Suddenly, I find myself needing to control myself. I turn my eyes away. Janice's lesson is over for me, though she stands before the class still at Angelica’s order. I am unable to stop thinking about Kina, what her cheeks would look like in a state of arousal, how it would feel to have her under me, on top of me.

  Would her touch be pleasurable?

  A sudden swallow in my throat, and I realize that my body is betraying me. Kina notices it, too, her eyes flickering with alarm. A vice grip clamps over my crotch, halting the transgression inside my own head.

  “Callum?” Angelica says, forcing me to cover myself in a blanket of dissociation. I elevate in seconds.

  “Yes?” I say, crisp and clear, chin up with confidence.

  “You have something to say?”

  The challenge hangs in the air. I have a choice to make, and I must make it in under a second. Janice’s eyes stay above our heads, open, devoid. Her fingers continue to move.

  “I think she should stop,” I say.

  Murphy, who sits to my right, jolts, a micromovement that does not go unnoticed by everyone else in the class.

  “You disagree, Murphy?” Angelica says to him.

  Mild panic flickers across his face for just a nanosecond, but it is enough. She snorts and moves on.

  “Kina?” she asks. “What is your opinion of Janice?”

  Kina’s quick glance at me turns into a full turn in her seat, her confidence completely manufactured as she says calmly, casually, “I think she should stop, too. Why give her the satisfaction of an orgasm? Make her get close and then suffer.”

  The set of Janice’s mouth as Kina’s words ring out through the classroom makes it clear she’s grateful.

  “Even The Mule thinks you should be tortured by your own need,” Jason says, bold and cocky, staring hard at Janice, who denies him her eyes. “Pretty bad when you're so weak that the weakest among us thinks that.”

  No one says a word.

  “No,” Angelica decides. “Janice, leave the room.”

  She starts to pull her hand out of her jeans. Angelica stops her, with fingertips light on her elbow. Janice jolts, as if she’d been burned by a branding iron.

  “No, no, keep going. As you walk into the room next door. Romeo is waiting for you.”

  A sound escapes Janice's throat. It's light and short, cut off quickly as she assembles whatever control remains inside her. To be sent to Romeo in this condition means nothing.

  Or everything.

  That's where we live here in our training.

  Nothing has meaning.

  Everything has meaning.

  And chaos is the ultimate goal.

  Starting with us.

  Our training is designed to be erratic. Unpredictable. Left in a constant state of not knowing, we develop resilience. People who crave predictability are soft.

  Brains and bodies should be flexible.

  “Leaving her hanging is the best expression of chaos,” Glen says, her voice practically bored.

  Angelica blinks, turning to her. “Explain.”

  “We can only create a new and better order by destroying the existing one. If Janice's need is a reflection of a poorly designed system, then you need to break the system down into its parts and rebuild.”

  My heart jumps at the implications of her words.

  “How would we do that with a biological entity?” Angelica's crisp question makes my spine tingle, my fingers curling into fists. A protective surge fills me. I've been Janice’s classmate for years. Carefully detached from emotion, I have no personal connection to her.

  And yet I feel something now.

  Not what I feel for Kina, but something different. Camaraderie. Decency.

  Outrage.

  “You leave it in a state of frenzy. The system will seek homeostasis. Don't allow that. See where the system evolves if it cannot go back to its baseline.”

  Glen's words are just a restatement of what her sister said. Angelica waved those words off. Glen, though, gets full credit for the same idea.

  In the doorframe, one foot in the hallway and one inside the room, Janice stands suspended, her hand down her jeans, eyes glazed. Smartly, she waits.

  I grind my teeth.

  What is the purpose of this?

  If I’m being questioned, I can come up with endless justifications for Angelica’s orders, but those are reasons. Not purposes.

  Humiliation is a technique. It works. Is breaking someone's will the purpose?

  If so, it's working.

  And not just on Janice.

  Romeo appears, dark and glowering. “What is this?” he says, referring to Janice, who does not move. He edges his way around her.

  Glen and Angelica share a look.

  “Nothing,” Angelica says. “Janice was being taught a lesson.”

  “Did you learn?”

  Janice's eyes glide robotically to meet his. “Yes, sir.” Her hand stills under the fabric. He looks down at it.

  Blank. His face stays blank.

  “That is what matters. That you learn. And do better next time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, sit down,” Angelica orders her. She does as she's told.

  We all do.

  We always do.

  Chapter 7

  Kina

  * * *

  The photos on the screen show seven cribs, all arranged around the perimeter of a room, a mobile above each, a comfortable rocking chair in one corner. Babies occupy the cribs. Three women are in the photos.

  Angelica, young and fuller in the face, is one of them. Her unmistakable tortoiseshell g
lasses are the giveaway.

  “These are the early nurseries. Most of you were raised there.” Sally is teaching us today, a rarity. No Angelica, no Romeo. Only Smith in the corner, on his smartphone, earpiece in place as he taps the screen.

  And Sally in front of the room, all twenty-four of us in one unit today.

  “Most?”

  Blinking. So much blinking from Sally. Her hair is short, cropped close around the ears but longer at the crown. She is tall and gaunt, with long fingers and a face that seems drawn to misery. Gravity pulls the corners of her mouth down as if that’s part of its purpose.

  “Some of you were rescued.”

  Callum's body shudders. I feel it before I see it.

  I'm not the only one, either.

  Glen’s eyebrow lifts one millimeter. It's the equivalent of an earthquake.

  “Rescued?” Judi asks, tilting her head. “Taken from the governmentalists?”

  “Yes. Abusive parents who wanted to turn you into mindless drones. Tools of the state.”

  “How many of us?” Callum asks. I can hear the question in his voice.

  Was I rescued?

  The dreams slam into me full force, making me catch my breath.

  He had them.

  I had them.

  Were we rescued?

  “That is not important,” Smith says, standing and glaring at Sally. It's clear she's told us something more than we were supposed to learn. “What is important is that you understand how lucky you are. Think of the millions who are trapped by abusive parents. Abusive governments. Abusive institutions that harm people but convince them that the harm is for their own good.”

  We all nod. How horrible to live like that.

  Judi's eyes tear up. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice sincere. I can feel it.

  Sally's head turns, eyes catching hers. “What?”

  “We are truly grateful.”

  The rest of us murmur.

  All except Callum. He's suddenly studying his thumb.

  “True governance involves sacrifice. The leaders give the most,” Smith says. “Those who follow, the least. Because of this imbalance, loyalty to leaders is paramount. We have loyalty to institutions in modern society. Loyalty to structure,” he says, as if the word structure itself were a poison. “When people worship a system, they lose their humanity.”

  We murmur agreement.

  “It is only through a complete reordering of society and a realignment of old ways with new perspectives that we will find true freedom.” He turns to Lisa, a brash girl who is terrible at classroom lessons but an extraordinary swimmer. “Explain the old ways.”

  “Divine right of kings. Feudalism. Regional systems controlled by a local leader and military. It is how humans thrive best,” she says automatically, the words practically memorized from one of our manuals.

  “That is what the books say. How do we translate that to modern times, with technology that connects people halfway around the world from each other, with pocket phones and cameras?”

  “We use structure against them,” Jason says in a lazy voice.

  “How?” Smith demands.

  “Our goal is to break their structures. Trigger chaos. Anarchy is the absence of structure,” he intones, using words I've read in so many textbooks. “Our mission requires rigid structures to be followed without question. We all make a sacrifice in joining The Mission. We're privileged to serve. But we must learn to function within a hierarchy before we can break theirs.”

  “We create a power vacuum,” Lisa jumps in, confused about why her answers are not enough, desperate to please.

  “How?” Smith demands.

  “By, um... chaos.”

  He pounds his fist on the table before her. “HOW?” he thunders.

  She goes quiet, eyes huge.

  “Through division,” my sister says calmly. “We divide and conquer.”

  “How?” he repeats, the Socratic method a favorite here at the compound.

  “We pretend to be like them. We learn their education systems, their social lives, their mores. We mirror them. Then we make them question everything they know.”

  “And?”

  “And make them question their loyalty to the institutions. Make them paranoid. People of all religious persuasions, all political philosophies, all creeds and races. We slowly convince them not to trust their own instincts.” Glen leans back, crossing her legs, as if the discussion is second nature.

  Because for her, it is.

  “What else?”

  “We do whatever we're told,” Judi says, jumping in. “The Mission is complex. We can drive the cars but we don't create the map.”

  Glen reddens slightly, but shows no other response.

  Smith's eyes flicker with approval. “Good.”

  Judi blinks as if she's cheering.

  I look back at the screen, my gaze tracing the outlines of those cribs. How many of us have been rescued? How many were born straight into Stateless?

  So I ask. The question is safe.

  “How many of us were born directly in?”

  Smith frowns, thick blond eyebrows like a gate. “That is confidential.”

  “Can you give a ratio? Are we one to one? Two to one?”

  “I cannot. But each of you has been told.”

  Two classmates startle slightly. It's obvious they have not. No one is brave enough to admit that aloud right now, though.

  I know my own history.

  Secure in that knowledge, I clear my throat to ask a question, only to be slammed suddenly by the vision of the woman in my dreams. I falter, the sound in my throat dying out.

  Smith and Sally look at me, expectant.

  I shake my head and touch my throat, as if ill.

  They turn away. No one cares about a sick mule.

  A bell rings. Lunchtime. We stand at once. There is no need for dismissal; the bell does it for the instructors. As we gather our things, Glen comes over to me, nudging past Judi, who loses her balance and leans against the table.

  Glen grabs my arm and leads me out into the hall, catching up to Callum.

  “What about you?” she asks him, her tone aggressive. “Were you one of the rescued ones?” Sneering, she makes it clear she views anyone not born into Stateless to be lesser.

  “I don't know. How do you know you've been here since birth?”

  “That is what Angelica told me.” She moves with precision, chin tightening.

  “You believe everything she says?” Callum says gruffly.

  “Of course!” I pipe up. “That is what we have been taught.”

  Shrewd eyes the color of sapphires meet mine for a second longer than they should. “Good. I was testing you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because one mistake will get you killed at this level.” I know what he means. The Test is coming. One of the twenty-four of us will kill another one. It is our final competition before receiving permanent assignments.

  We are all nervous. Jumpy.

  And I am frankly terrified.

  Glen interrupts. “I don't make mistakes,” she declares, her hand on my shoulder, protective.

  “We all make them. The goal is to be sure it's not a fatal one.”

  “Not fatal for me, you mean. We're trained to kill for The Mission.”

  “Of course.” Callum looks away. The burgundy line along his neck rises and falls like a small mountain range beneath his collar. Steel-blue eyes seem washed out by the sun that pours through the large picture window here in the hallway.

  “We’re taught to be detached, Callum. Emotion is only a weapon we use against others. We banish it from ourselves so it cannot be wielded against us,” I say, overly formal, making a point.

  Don't do this here, my voice says.

  “You seem to think I care about your opinion.” He goes colder.

  “You read into me too much.”

  I turn and leave.

  The window gives me our reflection.

&n
bsp; And in it, I see Callum's eyes tracking my every move.

  Chapter 8

  Callum

  * * *

  The Test.

  They call it by a name so simple that it means nothing.

  Death by any name is just absence. The lack of presence. Why glorify it with a special term?

  Tonight we go in Woods. All our years of wilderness training have prepared us for this.

  But tonight there is a difference. Tonight we are allowed one weapon.

  I stroke my bow and arrow. Even Romeo and Smith conceded a new one was justified. They broke the old one, my favorite, the one I treasured and trained.

  But any weapon is better than no weapon.

  And for an archer from toddlerhood, what I can do with a bow and quiver full of arrows guarantees my survival.

  The rules are simple: twenty-four people go into the woods. When the first kill happens, the game is over.

  I know from murmurs that Kina is the target for more than one classmate.

  And I know from murmurs that Jason has already staked a claim.

  The one who kills gets no glory. There is no ascension or special award. It is noted only by our trainers.

  The true test is to make sure you are not the one who dies.

  Therefore, victory does not matter.

  Sheer survival does.

  No one has a gun. All weapons are manual. I know some have knives. Some chose nunchuks, some brought batons. Once in a while, people cheat–and if rumor proves correct, this year, it's Jason and Chui, both bringing tripwires so sharp, they can cut a foot clean off at the ankle with enough force.

  That's the weakness with guys like them: They have to tell someone their plans. You can't be seen as the smartest guy in the room if no one hears you say it.

  I understand the stated purpose of The Test. It's to weed out the weakest, and to make us learn in a simulated setting what it's like to be prey and predator. But we're also assets. We've been told this all our lives. Money, time, effort, skill – all have been poured into us. We are grateful. We are special.

  We are Stateless.

  And as assets of value, we have worth.

  And yet – unlike other highly-trained operatives, we are told, from childhood, that our feelings are our biggest enemy. Not mass society. Not organized religion. Not governments that treat people poorly.