by Ben Oliver
“It doesn’t hurt,” she says. “It’s just a bit uncomfortable.”
“That goes away.”
I feel my body jerk at the memory of my initial surgery. The kind of trauma that you never truly get over, but here in the Loop, we don’t talk about it. I try to fight against the memory, but it comes on fast and unyielding.
The Marshals kick my front door in, splinters of wood and militaristic yells. My sister is screaming as my dad stares solemnly out the window at the black speck that is growing smaller and smaller, carried toward the horizon by a large drone.
The Marshals dragged me, currents of electricity forcing my limbs rigid, out the door and down 177 flights of stairs.
There was darkness after that. The rumbling of an engine, the vibrations as I was transported to the Facility.
And then the paralysis needle.
The first time it happens, you’re sure that it’s forever, that this is your life now, that this is what they do with criminals—immobilize them and stack them into cells to be forgotten about.
Then came the surgery.
Her face, half covered by a pristine white mask, appeared in my field of vision, a horrible glee in her eyes as she talked me through the things they were doing to my body.
She held aloft the thick cobalt cables and told me that they were cutting deep into my wrists and embedding the magnetic cuffs.
My body shifted as the blade tugged open my skin, then I heard the sound of bolts being fired into bone.
The surgeon appeared again, and as she spoke, I could hear the smile in her voice.
“This,” she said, holding up a small metal wire clasped in her tweezers, “this is what we do to felons.” The wire weaved around into an infinity symbol. It was made of silver metal, and white lights—evenly spaced throughout the figure eight—blinked rapidly. The surgeon turned the device around so that my locked eyes could see it clearly.
“This will pierce a hole through the right atrium of your heart. It will weave out and then into your pulmonary artery. It will track your movements, it will connect you to the Loop, and, most importantly, it will detonate and kill you if you step out of line.”
I wanted to scream, I wanted to run from there, but I couldn’t.
I didn’t feel it, but I heard the tear and the rip as she cut into my chest and between my ribs and into my beating heart. Inserting a loop into my heart so that I would be trapped inside the Loop, with no hope of escape.
“When’s your next Delay?” Kina asks, snapping me out of the recollection and back into the bright sunlight of the yard.
“Uh, about three months,” I tell her.
“You feeling lucky?”
I shake away the last of the lingering memory of the heart implant. “I’ve made it through four without dying so far. Five if you count the heart implant.”
“What were they?” she asks.
“My first was a nanotech. They never told me what it was for, but they made me drink some blue liquid, then they injected me with something. The second was a surgery. Luckily, it was only a minor one—they replaced the cartilage between two of my ribs with a new fiber that was supposed to have better tensile strength than the natural stuff, then they ran a bunch of tests and left me to recover without painkillers. The third Delay, they injected me with this fast-acting virus that made my temperature rise immediately, and bruises began to appear on my skin where blood vessels were bursting below the surface. They let the virus take me to the point of convulsions before they injected me with an experimental vaccine that—fortunately—worked. The fourth one was a new type of surgical stitching—they cut my forearm open from the elbow to the wrist and then sewed the wound up with some kind of skin-binding tool.”
Kina is silent for a while. I hear her exhale. “That sounds awful.”
“It’s not exactly a holiday,” I tell her.
“How can they let this happen to us? How can the government treat us like this?”
“The people don’t vote against Galen Rye,” I remind her. “If you’re rich, he’s a capitalist hero; if you’re poor, he’s fighting for your rights.”
“It makes you wonder, why has there never been a rebellion?”
“It takes a lot to rebel, and Galen’s got the extremists on his side. Besides, they’ve made it impossible,” I point out. “They control every aspect of our lives, our currency is digital, they can seize it without lifting a finger, taxes come out of wages without the worker having to hand anything over, we’re watched twenty-four hours a day by surveillance drones so nothing can be planned, and they keep enough people solvent so that the voices of the repressed are never listened to.”
“There were rumors, you know, on the outside. I never heard them directly, but my mother, she—”
Kina is interrupted by the one-minute warning ringing out across the yard. The drones hover off their center pillar, weapons tracking the inmates below.
“What rumors?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. “It was just conspiracy theory nonsense. I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Luka the librarian.”
I want to hear more about these rumors, see if they match up with Alistair and Emery’s whisperings of war, but there’s no time. The back wall begins to close, and I step inside my cell.
When the wall shuts and the silence returns, I have nothing but time.
I lie back on my bed and think about the stories my dad used to tell me and my sister when we were kids. He’d tell us all about the Third World War—the Futile War. Mom always said that the stories were too adult for us, but we always wanted to hear more. I often wonder if that’s why I felt such a kinship with Maddox, because he was so similar to my dad.
Twenty-nine nuclear bombs were dropped during the Third World War; some were big enough to level half a country, and others merely took out cities. An estimated 900 million civilians died during the conflict, but countless more died in the aftermath as Earth’s temperature dropped and the effects of the nukes took their toll.
It was a coalition of rebels that ended the war—rebels from both sides, from almost every country. The fact was that most of the citizens of the world didn’t want to be a part of it; they were too smart to fall for government propaganda and fearmongering, so they ended it, not with bombs or missiles but with a combination of hope, courage, and having nothing left to lose.
No single country won the war, no group of nations left to write their own version of history—the people of Earth won the war, and when those who started it were brought to justice and sentenced to death, those same people vowed it would never happen again.
Once the old powers were removed, evidence was uncovered of corruption so deep and sickening that it justified the musings of even the most ardent conspiracy theorists; several of the world’s most deadly diseases at the time had been cured decades previously, but the treatments were kept from the world to benefit the rich pharmaceutical companies, who made trillions selling near-useless pills to the sick and dying. It transpired that the political groups that people so fervently supported were merely a facade fostered and encouraged by the billionaires of the world to keep the people at odds—it was much easier to pass a despicable law when the citizens were voting with anger in their hearts rather than logic in their heads. Oil was obsolete; it had been for nearly a century—dozens upon dozens of scientists, mechanics, and tinkerers had created engines that ran on solar power, water, and hydrogen, but governments the world over bought and buried the patents because the oil wars were making fortunes for a select few.
After the war, the World Government was formed: a government that represented peace and prosperity, health care for every citizen and genuine equal opportunities for all, and—most importantly—logic. Logic in the form of Happy Inc. advising the government, solving international problems, and administering flawless and swift justice. And for a while it really worked, but curing three of the top five causes of death had its drawbacks too—the population exploded after civilization was reb
uilt. People lived longer, and almost no one died young. The populations of countries were forced into the surviving cities, as far away from the nuclear blasts as possible, and overcrowding was a huge problem, as were water shortages, energy shortages, famine, and the spreading of brand-new diseases that seemed to be born in the fallout. To this day, the sites of the nuclear blasts and the surrounding areas of irradiated land are uninhabitable. These areas are known as the Red Zones.
My sister and I would listen to these stories, and stories of the most famous battles, with such interest that we could barely sleep afterward.
But the thought of war, real war, is one that both terrifies and excites me. I wish it didn’t excite me, but just the notion of any sort of break in the routine of the Loop makes me almost dizzy with anticipation.
My father told me that they used inmates during the Third World War; they promised them reduced sentences, even freedom, if they would fight on the front lines. That’s an offer I would take without a second thought.
You’re getting ahead of yourself, Luka, I tell myself. You’ve heard one rumor. There is nothing going on.
And I know that it’s true, and I’m ashamed of myself for wishing for war, but when you’ve been caged and broken down, perhaps war is the best you can hope for.
I’m pulled from my thoughts by the hatch opening and Wren’s voice.
“Hey, Luka, how are you?”
And with that, all thoughts of war and freedom are gone.
I’m awoken by the sound of my screen rapidly bleeping.
Something sparks in the back of my mind, and I realize that today is Wednesday, and at 2 a.m. I get to walk out of this cell and be free for a few hours. But then I realize the alarm that’s woken me isn’t my regular wake-up call.
I recognize the sound; it’s a high-pitched beep that signals a Delay opportunity.
I sit up in the darkness and rub the sleep out of my eyes.
“Can’t be,” I mutter, stumbling toward the screen. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but I see that it’s 4:04 a.m. and the red dot at the bottom right corner is flashing below the word Delay. This is impossible. Delays are offered once every six months, and it’s only been three months since I completed my last one.
I blink a few times and try to clear my head. I look at the screen again, but nothing has changed.
My heart begins to thump in my chest. This is new, this is different, and different is amazing in the Loop. Anything that is not the daily routine is something to be savored, good or bad.
I press the red dot, and the screen changes to a white background with lines of text; it’s a Delay contract, but what’s it doing here on my screen at four in the morning and three months early?
THE UNDERSIGNED (INMATE 9-70-981, HENCEFORTH “THE INMATE”), IS OFFERED THE OPPORTUNITY TO TAKE PART IN A CLINICAL TRIAL OR TRIALS AS PART OF GROUP B, IN EXCHANGE FOR A DELAY IN THE FULFILLMENT OF THEIR COURT RULING (IN THIS CASE THE PENALTY OF DEATH).
UPON ACCEPTANCE OF THIS OFFER, THE INMATE WILL HEREBY BE GRANTED A STAY OF EXECUTION FOR 168 DAYS, AT WHICH TIME—SUBJECT TO CONDITIONS SPECIFIED BELOW—A FURTHER OFFER MAY BE MADE.
THE INMATE RETAINS THE RIGHT OF REFUSAL OF THIS PROPOSAL AT THIS TIME BUT UNDERSTANDS THAT REFUSAL OF THIS CONTRACT WILL RESULT IN THE IMMEDIATE EXECUTION OF THE RULING OF THE COURT FOLLOWING A ONE-WEEK COOLING-OFF PERIOD, AFTER WHICH THE INMATE WILL ONCE AGAIN BE OFFERED THE OPPORTUNITY TO TAKE PART IN THE TRIAL. IF—ONCE SIGNED—THE INMATE CHOOSES TO RENEGE ON THIS CONTRACT, THE RULING OF THE COURT WILL BE CARRIED OUT IMMEDIATELY.
THE NATURE OF THE TRIAL WILL REMAIN UNSPECIFIED UP TO THE TIME OF SAID TRIAL AND MAY REMAIN UNKNOWN TO THE INMATE FOLLOWING ITS COMPLETION, DEPENDING ON THE NATURE OF SAID TRIAL.
FURTHER DETAILS AND CONTRACTUAL OBLIGATIONS CAN BE FOUND ON PAGES 3–14.
IF THE INMATE AGREES, CONSENT CAN BE GIVEN BY ELECTRONIC SIGNATURE (PROVIDED BY FINGERPRINT AND IRIS SCAN) BELOW.
THIS OFFER STANDS FOR 24 HOURS FROM THE TIME OF SUBMISSION (4:03 A.M., ON THE FIFTEENTH DAY OF JUNE).
BY ORDER OF THE WORLD GOVERNMENT AND REGION 86 OVERSEER, GALEN RYE.
It’s the standard Delay contract apart from two things: the bit about Group B and the fact that it doesn’t make any sense. Surely, from a legal standpoint, the offer of a six-month contract becomes invalid by offering a new one after only three months? It doesn’t matter, though—it’s not like I can hire a lawyer to fight my case or voice my dissent to the government, and they wouldn’t listen even if I could.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper into the silence.
I convince myself that it can wait until later. The offer stands for twenty-four hours, after all. And then I remember I have Happy.
“Happy,” I say, commanding the screen to talk to me.
“Yes, Inmate 9-70-981?”
“Why have I been offered a Delay?”
“Everything is as it should be, Inmate 9-70-981.”
“No, it isn’t,” I insist. “I have three months left until my Delay. Can you explain this?”
“Everything is as it should be.”
I stare, disbelieving, at the screen. I try to slow my breathing, try to think rationally, but this unprecedented occurrence is causing adrenaline to pump through my body.
“All right,” I say finally.
I climb back into my bed and rest my head on my flat pillow. I don’t even bother to close my eyes; I know that I won’t sleep.
* * *
The sun comes up and I go about my daily routine, but I can’t help but be distracted by the constant flashing of the red light below the contract—reminding me that something is wrong, something is going on. I’m practically bouncing off the walls waiting for Wren to show up so she can tell me exactly why the Delay contract arrived early.
It feels like time is moving in slow motion, like every second lasts a minute, but finally exercise hour arrives and I don’t even wait for the back wall to fully open before ducking into the yard.
Immediately, I’m hit with a wall of concerned voices all talking at once, and I know that I’m not the only one who received the offer.
“Did you get the contract?” one older-sounding inmate yells to his neighbor.
“I took my Delay last week!” someone calls back.
“What does it mean? I got Group A, what did you get?”
“I’m B, what’s the difference?”
And still—over all of this—Tyco, unfazed, sticks to his murderous mantra.
“Luka, I’m going to kill you, are you listening to me? I’m going to kill you.”
I walk to the wall between Kina and me. Before I can say anything, she speaks.
“What does it mean, Luka?”
“I don’t know. It has to be a fault, doesn’t it?”
“Which group are you?” she asks.
“Group B. You?”
“B. Did you accept it?”
“No, I decided to wait and talk to Wren. Did you?”
“No, I’m going to do the same thing.”
“Something’s going on, Kina. It might be time to tell me about those rumors you heard.”
There’s a moment of silence. “They were just rumors, though, silly gossip I heard from my mom.”
“They could be important.”
“The thing is, my mother, she didn’t spend a lot of her time in the present, if you know what I mean?”
And I do know; Kina’s mother is a clone.
The clones aren’t clones exactly, it’s just what Regulars call victims of the epidemic, those who got lost in a combination of technology and a drug known as Ebb. They got the nickname “clones” because after a few months on Ebb, they all look the same: dull gray skin, missing teeth, matted hair, and skinny because they have no desire to eat.
The rich who get hooked on Ebb use it with a Lens, a piece of technology that every Alt has. It’s essentially a contact lens that displays information, records what the wearer sees, and can overlay virtual reality or augmented reali
ty on top of the real world. In the Verticals—where the Regulars can’t afford such tech—Ebb users rely on old-fashioned VR headsets. The effects of the drug coupled with the virtual world let the user truly believe that they are living an entirely different life. In reality, they become emaciated, their teeth rot, and their skin develops sores. They just don’t have the will to take care of themselves in the real world. Why bother when you’re always perfect on Ebb?
“I’m sorry,” I say, lost for anything of worth to add.
“No, it’s good,” Kina tells me. “As far as I know, she’s completely unaware that I’m even in this place, and she didn’t have a clue about Orla.”
I hear Kina catch herself as she finishes her sentence—she’s clearly said more than she intended to.
“What did you hear?” I ask, moving the conversation on.
“Well, she was always meeting friends when she was on Ebb, other users, you know? In virtual cocktail bars inside the seedier parts of one of the VR worlds, and I’d hear her talking to them about an uprising—always the word uprising, never war. I didn’t think anything of it, I just assumed it was the usual Ebb-user nonsense, but the topic seemed to keep coming up. But an uprising? That’s not possible.”
I barely hear the end of her sentence—my mind is racing back to the conversation between Emery and Alistair nearly two weeks ago. Somehow they had gotten wind of the war rumors too.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say. “We’re just jumping to conclusions—late rain and an early Delay doesn’t mean there’s a war coming. Before I was put away, the biggest news was all the people disappearing from the city, but no one suggested that was the beginning of a war.”
There’s a pause before Kina answers. “That’s still happening,” she tells me. “The news calls them the Missing. Around forty people a year, mostly Regulars, they just vanish. Some people say they go into the Red Zones, find a way to survive the radiation.”
“I heard they’re planning a revolution,” I say, almost laughing at the idea of a bunch of Regulars overthrowing a government run by Alts. “Anyway, we don’t jump to conclusions about the Missing, so why should we jump to conclusions about this?”