Mask

by C. C. Kelly

  Mask

  A Short Story Collection

  Copyright © 2013 C.C. Kelly

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Gatekeepers

  Five Minutes or Less

  Suicide in the Third

  Sometimes in the Light

  Gamma Series

  The Last Outpost

  Author’s Notes

  Gatekeepers

  Jenks, Oklahoma: At the turn of the twenty-second century…

  She felt disconnected from her normal life, the one recently lost. Her dark mood had driven her to the lowest level of her residence, and it was quite by accident that she found it at all.

  Before, there would have been no consideration or concern, but now she stared at the box with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. These emotions were both enticingly new and confusing, the result of evading her student-mandated medication. Finding the box had brightened her day and she forgot that she was lonely and sad and frustrated and irrationally depressed.

  E. Wells thought about taking it down to the local Information Control Depository. She knew she should, it was the Law after all. She traced a finger across the dust. It was really old, but then that was the allure.

  She gingerly pushed the lid off and peered inside.

  The box held a pair of well-worn, fluorescent-orange banana shaped sneakers. E. Wells picked one up and examined it. The sole was caramel colored with white trim and the heel had a word inscribed on it, “Converse”. The sides of the shoe were canvas and had a small, white plasticized circle with more writing, “Chuck Taylor Allstars”.

  She put it down next to her student-pink jump-suited foot — they would fit. She grinned. She grabbed the second one and saw a square piece of paper that had been hidden beneath. It was a photograph.

  It was small, but so full of detail — things she had never imagined before.

  The photograph was of a girl sitting outside, probably in the summer. She was a little older than E. Wells, but not quite University age. She was petite and very tan. Her hair was pulled into pig-tails and was a chaotic, yet harmonious blend of red, bright orange, blond and dark brown. She wore what appeared to be sun shades pushed back onto her head. The frames were white with pink circles and dots and an odd little cat with a bow in her hair on the ear pieces.

  The girl wore a sleeveless black shirt that was barely long enough to cover her breasts; the cryptic writing on it read, “Disturbed”. Underneath, her stomach was flat and her belly-button had a gold hoop in it, pierced. She wore pants that looked to be the same pale blue material that mechanic’s jump-suits were made of, but hers were tight and baggy at the same time, and ripped and tattered. Her tanned thighs and knees poked through in stark contrast to the bright white threads.

  She was wearing the same orange Converse shoes.

  She was sitting on some large black box, feet dangling and seemed to be in a crowd. She was leaning back, making strange gestures. Her hands were balled into fists, except she was extending her pinkies and index fingers and pointing them at the sky. E. Wells had no idea why.

  But it was the young girl’s face that was most captivating. She had bright red lips and was sticking her tongue out in a furious and yet, silly expression. A small silvery ball rested there, and after careful study, E. Wells realized it was another stud, similar to the hoop in her belly-button. Her tongue was pierced. Her delicate ears were full of these as well. It was beautiful and amazing and new.

  Her nose was small and innocent, E. Wells thought. And her eyes were incredible. They were bright, unnaturally blue, angry and happy and defiant – they were alive. Although they had never met, E. Wells knew who this young girl was. This was her grandmother. She knew, not just because this had been her grandmother’s home, but because the girl’s eyes looked the same as her own. Except, she knew from the mirror, her eyes didn’t shine like that.

  This was from before the Change. This was the old America, the one that was forbidden.

  “It’s lovely,” she said and hugged the shoes, while she stared at her grandmother.

  She unzipped her jump-suit and put the shoes inside with the photograph. She had no idea where she would hide them, but she would think of something.

  She still felt lost in her gray world, but now she had a destination — she wanted eyes like that.

  ******

  New York City: Twelve years later, still early in the twenty-second century…

  “It’s July Fourth New York and America 2.0 is turning sixty, so remember to visit your designated celebration center and don’t forget to sign-in early. Let’s get this party started with another enchanting melody, brought to you by The Ministry of Arts. You’re listening to Ministry of Arts Radio Two.” The announcer’s voice purred over the office speakers. A light, non-threatening rhythm followed, a tune reminiscent of the dozen that had preceded it and as equally non-threatening.

  R. Garraty wasn’t listening as he impatiently patted the illegal paperback against his suited leg. He twitched and smoothed his assigned pencil mustache, while he stared out through the windows of his office to the factory floor below. Countless vids surrounded the workstations that ran out in long aisles like crop rows.

  Over one thousand gray jump-suited Hacker Techs farmed the rows, plugged into their wet-wear interfaces through mirrored goggle face-plates. Some floors hunted the remaining outlawed artistic works that pre-dated the Great Change and the formation of the Ministry of Arts, purging them from the public record, quarantining and securing them in the Forbidden Archives. This floor, however, had a more current and politically relevant responsibility. They monitored every file, on every network, throughout the system and were tasked with purging all traces of self expression, no matter how trivial. Level Four transgressions were reported to their respective Sector Chiefs.

  Director Garraty anxiously awaited Level Four transgressions. They always resulted in commendations. And commendations resulted in promotions. He loved his job as one of the five Division Deputy Directors, but he secretly hoped for more. Soon, it would no longer be a secret. He pushed his hands together as though holding the reigns of a pony and galloped in place. He searched the rows, but there was still no sign of the inner-office courier.

  Well, it’s early, he thought.

  Standing here in this moment, staring out through the glass, the memories of the vids of his childhood cascaded down upon him, not the sanctioned films from the Ministry, but illegal ones his parents would watch on the lower level when they thought he was asleep. Their residence module contained a small fabrication defect along his closet floor that allowed him to secretly watch with them.

  That crack was a window to another world, a twentieth century world of amazing sights and sounds. But of all of the movies, it was Gone with the Wind that had seized his young heart and not-yet-medicated imagination. Over the intervening years, those forbidden actors had become mythic, ghostly obsessions – unwilling participants in his own unrequited love story. Although he couldn’t remember everything from that far-away time, he never forgot the poignant grief when he lost them — when his parents went away.

  During that time he had become a model student at the Ministry’s School for Reclaimed Children and demonstrated an aptitude for sociology and history. Even when he went home again, he continued his studies with the Ministry’s Advance Training Curriculum. As he grew into a young man, his student-medication had been limited and eliminated altogether the year before graduation. Based upon his academics and psyche profiles, the Ministry placed him into an entry level research position within the Forbidden Archives. He fell in love with the twentieth century all over again and developed a strong affinity for 1940’s gossip columnists as he sought out their discussions of the celebrities he so cherished.

&
nbsp; And of all of those welcomed and yet, haunting spirits, it was Scarlet that he sacrificed most for, his true love. But Vivien Leigh always waited beyond his Security Clearance, her welcoming vitality, her passion and her sympathetic eyes lay just beyond his reach, beyond his control — tempting, testing and driving him. The twentieth century was his own private menagerie; he only needed to claim it.

  He had patronized and soiled his hands to get to his current position, but even now she eluded him. He thought as Deputy Director he would have more access, but he was still severely restricted, blocked. That was about to change. He thought again of his parents and the debt he owed them for those secret movies and then a deeper emotion surfaced. His parents were never the same after they returned. He remembered that his mother was especially changed. He remembered she had died shortly thereafter.

  He shook his head and buried the memories again as he caught sight of his favorite Sector Chief approaching the stairs to his office, it was probably just their routine Monday meeting, but he sensed something was being rolled up. He hoped so; he needed a distraction. He turned back to his oddly out of place, old-fashioned oak desk; it crouched in stark contrast to the dull grays of the room and factory floor. He smiled as his confidence returned.

  “Mr. J. Anderton to see you, Sir,” his secretary called through the intercom.

  He fell into his chair and pulled the bottom drawer of his desk open and carefully returned his tattered copy of A Streetcar Named Desire to its usual resting place atop an even more worn copy of Gone with the Wind and closed and locked it. His private books were confiscated contraband, undocumented violations. He retained them against policy, but being the Deputy Director did have certain benefits, even if they weren’t strictly legal.

  He pressed the intercom switch. “Please, send him in Ms. H. Offred.”

  The opaque glass door opened and J. Anderton walked into the office and took a seat at R. Garraty’s nod.

  “Good morning, Jay. Is this going to be the usual Monday morning meeting or is there something more deliciously entertaining in store?”

  J. Anderton smiled, “Morning Sir. May I say that is a very nice suit you are wearing today? And yes, a few items this morning and,” he paused briefly noting the glint in R. Garraty’s eye, “yes, something more.”

  “Oh, you compliment my fashion every Monday even though you know it is assigned by Division. But thank you.” R. Garraty smoothed his mulberry suit.

  “Perhaps it is the tailoring.”

  “Perhaps Jay, perhaps. I think a double breasted look would be nice, don’t you?”

  J. Anderton looked around nervously and lowered his voice, “Very, Sir. But those suits are reserved for the Ministry of Content Creation.”

  R. Garraty smiled, like a child with a secret. “You know I treasure our meetings, but as anxious as I am to hear the simply wicked news I’m sure you must have for me, before we get started, I have some news for you.”

  “Yes Sir, news is always a pleasure. Is it about the suit?” J. Anderton asked seriously.

  “I wanted you to be the first to know.” R. Garraty laid his hands atop his bare desk and leaned over in conspiratorial fashion. “I am so going to miss our Monday morning meetings, miss them terribly. But yes, I, R. Garraty am being promoted. In fact, I’m to be promoted today. I’m waiting on the courier as we speak. And then,” R. Garraty winked as he continued, “I’m off to the Division Tailor, isn’t it simply exquisite?”

  “Sir, that’s wonderful. And thank you for allowing me to be the first to congratulate you.” J. Anderton sighed in relief.

  “Thank you, thank you. I believe the courier will be arriving any time now.”

  “Sir, if I may be so bold, where are you being promoted to?”

  Deputy Director R. Garraty leaned back in his chair and eyed J. Anderton curiously. “Yes, you may be, as you say — so bold. This is Information Control; you must know that only one Division has more prestige.”

  “I gathered that from the new wardrobe, but where within the Division of Content Creation?”

  Garraty smiled like an idiot. “Why, my young protégée, at the top, of course. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a promotion, now would it?”

  “Of course, Sir. That’s so wonderful. I wasn’t aware the current Director was retiring.”

  “Oh, he’s not, not by a long shot, but that isn’t relevant anyway. I am to become his most trusted Second.”

  J. Anderton’s eyes widened. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Sir, but are you the one we’ve heard the rumors about?”

  “I am indeed — the one. You are looking at the next Curator of the Forbidden Archives.” R. Garraty all but shivered in his chair. With the accompanying palpable dread, he assumed that he would be unable to prevent his inevitable promotion into a dead end functionary position within The Ministry headquarters.

  Although, such a promotion would have been an incredible achievement in its own right for anyone else, for R. Garraty it was a potential nightmare that haunted every waking hour, tantamount to a death sentence. His dream, his need, demanded a different path. For many years now, his ambition had been to secure a position with the Ministry of Arts’ Department of Content Creation — a very specific position indeed. And he had bided his time, remaining patient and vigilant for his opportunity. In time, the Ministry of Information Control had called him up. He did not disappoint.

  He was very good at both managing the new talent averages and meting out justice as necessary. His performance over the last few years had been exemplarily, moving along new Content Applicants and continuing to feed the Forbidden Archives. But it was the Draconian suppression of subversive self expression and his devotion to maintaining the status quo that had garnered him invitations to the right parties, to sit with the right social elite and most importantly — to converse with the right politicians. At such social gatherings he was careful to let slip a casual reference here, the obsequious gesture there and now those subtle hints and hard work were paying off. His machinations had curried favor. The communiqué of his dream-come-true was certainly on its way even now.

  “Sir?” J. Anderton asked.

  “Oh, never mind me. I was wondering if I would get pinstripes.”

  “Pinstripes, Sir, yes.”

  “Oh, drat. I’m being a terrible bore aren’t I? Sitting here gloating. My sincerest apologies. So, enough about me. It’s our last day together; let’s hear what wonderfulness you have for me this morning.”

  “Yes Sir.” J. Anderton sat with his personal vid in his lap while he held a clipboard with reports and notes. He studied the material.

  “Time is running in ever so short supply this morning, snap it up. I’m waiting Jay.”

  J. Anderton glanced up, nodding and then began to speak, “Sorry, Sir. Last month we had thirteen thousand applicants seeking permission to submit content for approval. They are under review.

  “We have one thousand one hundred thirty-eight breaches of contract from the approved applicants for content submission. They have all been assigned to re-education from between two weeks and six months.”

  R. Garraty nodded.

  “The remainder of the creative content submissions for the month have been cataloged, so for those receiving permission to develop their concepts we have three thousand forty-seven new musical compositions, one thousand three hundred twelve new literary works and nine thousand six hundred four artistic expressions.”

  J. Anderton handed the print out to R. Garraty. He scanned the data and compared them to numbers displayed on his desk vid.

  “Randomly purge, oh, what do you think - sixty-seven? No, I have a better idea, much better,” he said flashing his eyes, “let’s do eighty-eight percent of everything, since this is such a so, so special day. Send out the usual ‘Apply Next Year’ letter to all of those rejected.” He flitted his fingers in a dismissive fashion. “Purge their content and forward the remainder to,” he sighed as he continued, “the Division of Content Creation – Complia
nce Department.”

  “Yes Sir.” J. Anderton noted the wistful smile, but continued without comment. “I think you’ll enjoy this. We have a one T. Iommi, High School student in Iowa, who violated the School’s Arts Charter on Music Appreciation.”

  “Pray, what did the young lad do?”

  “He was found utilizing a diminished fifth in a class assignment.”

  R. Garraty grinned, “A tri-ode, interesting. The Devil’s note refuses to remain quarantined? And what are we doing about this particularly pesky morsel of wickedness?”

  “Tactical is currently in route. The class will be held for a day of re-education, the student will receive a month re-education assignment and the teacher will be detained for the statutory term of six months. The student’s family is being vetted as we speak.”

  “Excellent work Jay. Most excellent. As usual, yes? Tell me, which clever, hard-working tech caught this odious wisp of unpleasantness?”

  J. Anderton glanced at his report. “That would be Tech F-dash-Four-Five-One.”

  “Put a commendation in his file, ‘hard work and devotion, blah-blah-blah-something-something’, okay? Few would have caught this one.”

  “Consider it done, Sir.”

  “Marvelous.

  “I thought you’d appreciated that, Sir.”

  “But I assume there is more? Please, tell me there is more,” R. Garraty encouraged.

  “And just to top off your morning,” J. Anderton grinned foolishly as he continued, “we have a new applicant for IC.”

  “A new applicant? Well, that is just, that is just stupendous, that’s what that is. Simply stupendous. Oh, go on, please, please share.” R. Garraty cradled his face in his hands in anticipation.

  “He posted Anthem.”

  R. Garraty lifted his head and his eyes narrowed and for the briefest of moments darted to his locked drawer. His tone changed abruptly. “That’s sealed away in the Forbidden Archives. How did he get a copy of that book?”