Choke Collar: Positron, Episode Two

by Margaret Atwood

  The pink leotard woman tells them to practice every day, because if you focus, focus, focus on positive thoughts, you’ll attract your own luck to yourself and shut out those negative thoughts that try to get in. They can have such a toxic effect on your immune system, leading to cancer and also to outbreaks of acne, because the skin is the body’s largest organ, and so sensitive to negativity. Then she tells them that next week the feature will be pelvic alignment, so they should all pick up their yoga mats at the gym. She signs off with a freeze-frame smile.

  New music comes on—“Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” sung by Judy Garland—and with it the Consilience logo: CONSILIENCE = CONS + RESILIENCE. DO TIME NOW, BUY TIME FOR OUR FUTURE.

  Another Town Meeting. Stan yawns, tries not to yawn again. Everyone in Consilience is expected to attend Town Meetings, and since there are tiny scanners with face recognition capabilities on all the TV screens, everyone does. It’s not a good idea to look too bored. He opens his eyes wider.

  Here come the usual head deadeners: the graphs, the statistics, the hectoring disguised as pep talks. Violent incidents are down for the third time in a row, says a small nothing-faced guy in a tight suit, and let’s keep that arrow moving down: shot of a graph. Egg production is up again. Another graph, then a shot of eggs rolling down a chute and an automatic counter registering each egg with a digitized number. Stan has a pang of nostalgia and self-pity—those chickens and eggs were once his chickens and eggs, in Positron. They were his responsibility, and, yes, his tranquility. But now all that has been taken away from him and he’s been demoted to chief toe licker for spooky Jocelyn.

  Suck it up, he tells himself. Close the right nostril, breathe in.

  Now another face comes on. It’s Ed, the pep-talker from Stan’s first day at Consilience, now anchorman on the Town Meetings. Ed the confidence man, there to make them all feel confident about having signed on, signed in; but an Ed who’s more substantial and assured, weightier in manner, more full of himself. You can tell he’s been given a promotion. He doesn’t have to do the graphs and the egg stuff anymore: he’s got something more important to deliver.

  The Consilience model has been going well, says Ed, all over America. Theirs was the first, the pioneering town; then nineteen others followed. And since then, the number of participating communities has swelled to more than a hundred. There are local variations—Louisiana has kept its full honey-hole model, the for-profit hosting of recalcitrants from some of the other states, and Texas is still dealing with its criminality problems by means of its celebrated serial executions, but many others have gone in for a more … for a more humane, or at least a more … for something more like Consilience. He smiles.

  But now, a frown. In fact, says Ed, the model has been so effective—so conducive to social order and, because of that, so positive for the nation as a whole in economic terms, and indeed so positive for the invest—for the supporters and visionaries who’d had the courage and moral fiber to see a way forward in a time of multiple challenges … the Consilience model has been, in a word, so successful that it has created enemies. As successful enterprises always do. Where there is light, it does seem a rule that darkness will shortly appear. As it now has, he is sorry to inform them.

  An even deeper frown, a thrusting of the forehead, a lowering of the chin, a raising of the shoulders: an angry-bull stance. Who are these enemies? Some are foreign agitators; others are enemies from within, agents in the employ of hostile elements, aiming to undermine the foundations of returning prosperity and endeavoring to chip away at trust, that trust without which no society can function in a stable manner. Some are illegals, working in the black economy, undercutting the legitimate jobs of legitimate citizens. Some are parasitic impediments, pleading for privileged treatment, posing as ill or disabled—clogging up the works, consuming valuable resources, blocking the flow. Some are malcontents, maladjusted misfits, who claim to be acting as they do in order to restore so-called human rights.

  But is it not a human right to have a job? Ed believes it is! And enough to eat, and a decent place to live, as Consilience provides—those are surely human rights!

  All of these enemies—says Ed—must be identified, and then they must be neutralized. For, otherwise, what will happen? The Consilience model will be threatened! It will be attacked on all sides by what may seem like small forces, but together in a mob those forces are not small, they are catastrophic, just as a million rats is catastrophic. Untruths or partial truths or outright lies will be circulated, and on the basis of these, large and organized and effective opposition groups may form that could even resort to destructive terrorist activities. So the sternest of measures must be taken before things get out of control. An overall solution is required.

  And such a solution has indeed been devised, though not without much careful thought and the rejection of less viable alternatives. It is the best solution available at this time and in this place: they can take Ed’s word for that.

  And this is where he needs their cooperation. For the jewel in the middle of Consilience—Positron Prison, to which they have all given so much of their time and attention—Positron Prison has been chosen for a vital role in that solution. Every resident of Consilience will have a part to play, but for the present they can best help by simply going about their daily routines as if nothing unusual is happening, despite the unavoidable disruptions that may occur in that routine from time to time. Though it is earnestly hoped that these will be kept to a minimum.

  Remember, says Ed: these enemies, if they had their way, would destroy everyone’s job security and their very way of life! They should all bear that in mind. He has great faith in their common sense and in their ability to recognize the greater good and to choose the lesser evil. He allows himself a tiny smile, and is then replaced by the Consilience logo and the familiar sign-off slogan: A MEANINGFUL LIFE.

  Stan looks sideways at Jocelyn. She’s staring thoughtfully at the screen, on which a toddler in the Positron preschool is playing with a blue knitted teddy bear, a ribbon around its neck. They always run kiddie pictures after the Town Meetings, as if to remind everyone not to stray off the course Consilience has set for them, because wouldn’t they be endangering the security and happiness of these little ones? No one but a child abuser would do that.

  Jocelyn switches the TV off, then sighs. She’s looking tired. She knew all of that in advance, Stan thinks. She’s in on it, whatever it is.

  * * *

  The first trucks arrive the next morning. They’re unloaded at the main gates. The people herded out are wearing the regulation orange boiler suits, but they’re hooded, their hands plasticuffed behind their backs. Instead of being driven straight to Positron, they’re marched through the streets at a slow walk, shepherded by a batch of men and women in guard uniforms. But the guards aren’t from Consilience: their uniforms are blue, not gray, and they have green-and-red armbands, as if they’re tagged for Christmas. The prisoners must have some way of seeing out the front; they don’t stumble as much as you’d think. Some are women, judging from the shapes muffled beneath their baggy clothing.

  No need to parade them like this unless it’s a demonstration, thinks Stan. A demonstration of power. What’s been going on in the turbulent world outside the closed fishbowl of Consilience? No, not a fishbowl, because no one can see in.

  The other guys in the scooter repair depot glance up as the silent procession shuffles past, then return to their work.

  “Sometimes you miss the newspaper,” one of them says. No one replies.

  * * *

  Charmaine is called to sit for the retina scan again, to repeat the fingerprinting, to read Winnie the Pooh for the voice analyzer. Will these steps re-create her profile for the benefit of the database? It’s hard to tell: she’s still alone in her cell, still shunned by the knitting circle, still stuck in towel folding.

  But the next day Aurora from Human Resources turns up in the laundry room and asks Charmaine to acc
ompany her upstairs for a chat. The other towel folders look up: is Charmaine in trouble? They probably hope so. Charmaine feels at a disadvantage—she’s covered in lint, which is diminishing—but she brushes herself off and follows Aurora to the elevator.

  The chat takes place in the Chat Room beside the front checkout counter. Aurora is pleased to be able to tell Charmaine that she will have her cards and codes restored to her—or not restored; confirmed. Just as Aurora assured her, the database glitch has been repaired, and she is now once again who she’s been claiming she is. Aurora smiles tightly. Isn’t that good news?

  Charmaine agrees that it is. At least she has a code identity once again, which is some comfort. “So can I leave now?” she asks. “I’ve missed a lot of Out time.”

  Unfortunately, says Aurora, Charmaine can’t depart from Positron quite yet: the synchronization is off. Although in theory she might move into the guest room of her own house—Aurora makes a laughing sound—her Alternate is of course now living in the house they share, it being that person’s turn. Aurora of the skintight face understands how upsetting all this must be for Charmaine, but the proper rotation must be preserved, with no interaction between Alternates. Familiarity would inevitably lead to territorial squabbling, especially over such comfort items as sheets and pillows. As they have all been taught, possessiveness about our cozy corners and favorite toys isn’t limited to cats and dogs. How we wish it were. Wouldn’t life be simpler?

  So Charmaine must continue to be patient, says Aurora. And in any case she’s been doing such a good job with the knitting—the blue teddy bears. How many has she knitted now? It must be at least a dozen! She’ll have time for a few more of them before she leaves, hopefully at the next switchover day, which is when? The first of March, isn’t it? And it’s almost Valentine’s Day—so, not long to go!

  Aurora herself has never learned to knit. She does regret that. It must be calming.

  Charmaine clenches her hands. One more of those darn teddy bears with their bright, unseeing eyes and she’s going to go sideways, right off the tracks! They’ve filled bins of them. She has nightmares about those teddies; she dreams they’re in bed with her, unmoving but alive. “Yes, it is calming,” she says.

  Aurora consults her clip tablet. She has another piece of good news for Charmaine: as of tomorrow, Charmaine will be taken off towel folding and resume her former duties as Chief Medications Administrator. Positron does reward talent and experience, and Charmaine’s talent and experience have not gone unnoticed. Aurora gives an encouraging grimace. “Not everyone has the soft touch,” she says. “Coupled with such dedication. There have been incidents, when other … other operatives have been tasked with the, with the task. With the essential duty.”

  “When do I start?” asks Charmaine. She does want to get back to her real job, away from towel folding. She looks forward to reentering the Medications Administration wing, Procedures Department, following her usual route along the hallways. She visualizes approaching the desk, accessing the possibly real head on the screen—often the same head, but not always—that will validate her and give her the key code for the medications; then advancing through the familiar doors, snapping on the gloves, keying in the code for the medication, picking up the hypodermic. Then on to the room where her daily charge will await, immobile but fearful. She will soothe those fears. Then she will deliver bliss, and then release.

  It will be nice to feel respected again.

  Aurora consults her clip tablet again. “I see here that you’re set to resume your duties tomorrow afternoon,” she says. “After lunch. When we make a mistake here, we do move speedily to rectify it. Congratulations on a good outcome! We’ve all been rooting for you.”

  Charmaine wonders who’s been doing the rooting, because she hasn’t noticed anyone. But like so many things around here, maybe it’s taken place behind the scenes. “Goodness, I’m late for a meeting,” says Aurora. “We have a whole new group coming in, and all at once! Any further questions or points of information?”

  Yes, says Charmaine. While she herself has been detained in Positron and her Alternate has been living in her house—their house—where has Stan been living? She hasn’t dared to ask this before—it might have sounded like complaining, it might have cast suspicion, it might have interfered with her chances for exoneration—but she’s been cleared now.

  “Stan?” says Aurora blankly.

  “Stan. My husband, Stan,” says Charmaine.

  “That’s not information I have access to,” says Aurora. “But I’m sure he’s fine, wherever he is.”

  Does he know why I wasn’t there? Charmaine wants to ask. At home. Was he told what happened? Or did he think I’d just been subtracted? Sent to Medications? But to demand any more answers during this delicate transition that’s taking place—this rehabilitation—might be pushing her luck.

  Then there was Max. Kept equally in the dark. But she couldn’t ask Aurora about Max.

  “Could I maybe just send him a message?” Charmaine says. “Stan? For Valentine’s Day? To let him know I’m okay, and that I …” A tremulous pause on the verge of tears, which she feels she might really shed. “That I love him?”

  Aurora stops smiling. “No. No messages while in Positron. You know better than that. If prison isn’t prison, the outside world has no meaning! Now, enjoy the rest of your experience here.” She nods, stands up, and bustles out of the Chat Room.

  * * *

  That evening, after the communal meal in the women’s dining room—chicken stew, Brussels sprouts, tapioca pudding—they all file into the main space, where the knitting circle meets. The teddy bear bin is half full, and it is their task to fill it before the month is out.

  Charmaine takes up her allotted bear and sets to work. But when she’s done only two rows, one knit, one purl, there’s a stir. Heads turn: a man has walked into the room. This is almost unheard of, here in the women’s wing. It must be one of the higher-ups, but why is he here?

  Behind him is Aurora with her clip tablet, and another woman: black hair, squarish face, a strong body, like someone who works out a lot—boxing, not yoga. Nice legs in gray stockings. Charmaine recognizes her: she’s one of the talking heads from the validation screen in Medications Administration. So those heads are real after all! She’s always wondered.

  Is it her imagination or has this woman singled her out, given her a brief nod, a quick smile? Maybe she’s a secret ally—one of the behind-the-scenes rooters, one of those who’s restored Charmaine to her rightful job. Charmaine gives a little nod in her direction, just in case.

  Aurora introduces the man. He’s Ed, from Security, she says—they will of course recognize him from his excellent Town Meeting presentations on TV—and he has some very simple but very crucial instructions to give them at this juncture.

  Charmaine does remember Ed. On the TV he was always friendly, he made eye contact, he somehow included everyone in. But he seems more distant in person.

  Ed begins to talk. There is a crisis, he says, in the outside world. One might almost call it an insurrection. The situation is being brought under control, but meanwhile he is calling upon all of them to exert themselves even more than usual, in order to repel the barbarians at the gates who have declared themselves against the new world order. The new order of things that is breathing new life into an exhausted and mismanaged nation—one might even say a deliberately sabotaged nation.

  Who are these barbarians? He will be clear. A network of spies, ecoterrorists, Internet espionage artists, and carbon-energy saboteurs has been identified and rounded up, and Positron has been designated to process them. All assembled here are being called upon to do their duties, namely: No fraternizing with the incomers, even if an opportunity may present itself. The prompt carrying out of orders, when given by any guard in a blue uniform with a green-and-red armband. Though such orders may not be necessary; but in the event they are necessary, they must be promptly executed. Any unusual sounds are to be
ignored. He cannot say what these sounds might be, other than unusual, but they will know them when they hear them. Otherwise they are to carry on as normal, and to mind—he will put this colloquially—to mind their own business.

  As if it’s been orchestrated, there’s a scream. It’s distant—hard to say whether it’s a man or a woman—but it’s definitely a scream. Charmaine wills herself not to turn her head, holds herself perfectly still. Did the scream come over the sound system? Was it from outside, in the yard? There’s an imperceptible rustling among the women as they steel themselves against hearing.

  Ed has paused a little, to make room for the scream. Now he continues. And finally, he will now share with them, and he does apologize for this: during this crisis, and he does expect it to be cleared up soon, Positron will not be the comfortable and familiar haven of friends and neighbors that they have helped to create. Regrettably, it will become a less trusting and open place, because that is what happens in a crisis—people must be on guard, they must be sharper, they must be harder. But after this interlude, if the forces acting for the greater good are successful, the normal pleasant and congenial atmosphere will prevail.

  After Ed from Security leaves, followed by his sidekicks, the knitters look at one another.

  “What was he talking about?” says one. “What sounds? I didn’t hear anything.”

  “We don’t need to know,” says another. “When people talk like that, it means don’t even listen, is what they mean.”

  “What sort of crisis?” says a third. “Did something blow up?”

  Dang it to heck, thinks Charmaine. I dropped a stitch. Darn bear! Whatever that was about, it’s not good.

  * * *

  It’s Valentine’s Day. Stan lies in bed. He doesn’t want to get up, because he doesn’t want to plod through the hours ahead, expecting to be ambushed at any minute by whatever foul or embarrassing surprise Jocelyn’s planning to spring on him. Will it be a red cake plus tawdry heart-sprinkled lingerie for Jocelyn—or, worse, for himself? Will there be a soppy and mortifying declaration of love from her, with the expectation of an equally soppy and mortifying one from himself in return?