by Shea Oliver
He looked at the screen again, and the woman repeated what she had just stated, “Kadamba Vorhoor, your processing will begin in a few moments.” The face appeared frozen for a few moments, and then cheerfully began again. “As a first-time client of the Purostinov Justice Processing Center, I will be glad to walk you through the initial steps of your first processing.”
“Are you a recording or a real person?” Kadamba asked the screen. The woman appeared to look at Kadamba, almost seeming to lose her cheerful demeanor, but immediately began speaking again as a box appeared below the screen, materializing out of the wall.
“Please remove your clothes and place them in the bin,” declared the perky woman on the screen with another fake smile.
With a laugh Kadamba responded, “I don’t think so, lady. My clothes stay on me.”
He stared intently at the image of the woman, still completely unable to tell if she was real or not. Once again she began to speak. “You have two minutes to remove all of your clothing and place them in the bin.”
“Well, I just don’t think it will work. I just can’t strip with you staring at me,” Kadamba maintained, watching the screen, hoping to see the now-still face either turn away or begin to speak again. He realized that in the corner of the screen a countdown timer had appeared. He watched it for a few moments. As it approached 1:00, he realized a current of some type was flowing through the floor. It began to hurt. He realized he couldn’t move and felt the muscles throughout his body contracting more and more tightly.
“You now have one minute to place all of your clothing in the bin, or full electro-simulative shock will be applied,” the perky voice informed him.
When the current ended, Kadamba quickly began removing his clothes throwing them into the bin. His underwear, which was the last thing he had removed, landed in the bin with nine seconds remaining. The bin began to draw into the wall, disappearing completely, leaving him sitting naked. As he began to shake, he realized he was even more scared than before. Without his clothes, he felt completely vulnerable. Covering his genitals, he looked back at the screen. The woman on the screen now seemed to have a malicious smile, even though she appeared perky and happy.
“Thank you for complying. You now have five minutes to complete any personal toilet needs. From the wall beside him, a bump began to emerge in the form of a very low toilet. This was humiliating, but he was actually slightly relieved. He realized that he really did need to go. He sat on the toilet and buried his face in his hands, not wanting to look at that horrible, cheerful face on the screen.
“Uh, is there . . . uh . . . any paper anywhere?” he asked when he was done.
“You now have one minute to complete your personal needs,” the annoying face on the screen relayed with a smile.
“Seriously, can I please have some . . .” Before Kadamba could finish his request, a blast of water hit him squarely where he needed to be cleaned. “Thanks. I guess. I didn’t realize it would do that.”
Kadamba slid to the floor as the toilet dematerialized back into the wall. He curled up in a ball. This was the most terrible thing that had ever happened to him, and it all had happened so fast. As he began to think of what had transpired that day, he realized that he didn’t know if it was still the same day. Was it day or night? Or had he been out for days, weeks, or months? He began to sob as he curled himself up tighter and tighter.
The woman on the screen smiled again. “You will now be sanitized for your initial conference with your Purostinov Justice Processing Center Representative. Please lie face down on the floor with your hands spread above your head and your legs spread wide.”
Kadamba could barely hear the perky-sounding voice. He wanted it to go away. He wanted everything to go away. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could and demanded of himself that he wake up. This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t really be happening. He felt the current hit him again, and his muscles contracted even more tightly than before; his back and legs began to quake from the contraction. Then it was gone.
“Please lie face down on the floor with your hands spread above your head and your legs spread wide,” the voice demanded.
Kadamba rolled himself out, complying with the overly pleasant voice’s order. He suddenly felt bands wrap around his wrists and ankles, lifting him into the air. He opened his eyes in pain, only to realize that the wide-eyed weirdo in the box next to his was staring right at him. With utter disgust, he realized that the man was also naked, sitting cross-legged, and masturbating as he gleefully watched what was happening to Kadamba.
A humming noise began to grow louder as the air pressure in the room seemed to change. Kadamba slammed his eyes shut as the liquid began to hit him from every direction. It felt like a million tiny high-pressure streams coming at him from every direction and moving in random patterns. It shot into his ears and nose, causing him to cough, which, in turn, allowed the astringent-tasting liquid to spray into his mouth. One at a time, the bands would disappear, dropping him to hang by three limbs, rather than all four. The liquid stung every place it touched, not just from the pressure, but also from whatever it was. Even his mouth, throat, and lungs burned. Every inch of his body felt like it was on fire when the torture stopped.
The humming noise began ramping up again. He closed his eyes, as the spray hit him again. This time it was only water. It stung, but it was washing the burning sensation away. He breathed in and even tried swallowing some of the mist in the room. As the water stopped, he realized that he felt warm. He realized that it could have been worse; at least, it hadn’t been cold water. The air began to move swiftly around him, and he guessed that he was now being dried. He wished he hadn’t, but he looked over at the weirdo again, just in time to see the man paint his own ankles while wearing a sickeningly satisfied look on his face.
When the bands vaporized, Kadamba crashed into the floor.
The perky, smiling face began speaking again, “You should now feel sanitized and refreshed for your initial conference.”
A surge of anger exploded into Kadamba’s gut. “Fuck YOU!” he shouted at the screen, but the woman maintained her smile.
“Please note that your personalized uniform is now ready and waiting,” she informed him.
Kadamba looked around and saw that a neatly folded, orange article of clothing was sitting a few inches away. Grabbing it, he saw that it was a large one-piece uniform that would cover him from his ankles to his wrists. He quickly shoved his feet into the opening in the back of the uniform and pulled it on as quickly as he could. It was a huge relief to no longer be naked with that pervert scanning every inch of his body. He looked over again, but the man was gone. Despite his being flexible and able to feel every inch of its opening, Kadamba couldn’t figure out how to close the back opening of the uniform. He sat down cross-legged to try and solve this, when the back suddenly closed on its own, and the uniform seemed to shrink to become absolutely skintight.
Kadamba realized how out of his control that his life had become and that it had happened so fast. It couldn’t have been that long ago, perhaps hours, that he had landed a date with Jundana and driven a knife through the skull of that bargabuko. He had been on top of the universe. Everything in his life had been going so well. Kadamba had the world in his hands and a lifetime of opportunity ahead of him. Now he sat in a small cage, which didn’t even seem to have a door, dressed in a uniform that he didn’t choose and didn’t even know if he could remove.
The smiling face on the screen began again, “The Purostinov Justice Processing Center thanks you for your compliance, on this, your first time, being processed. Your compliance has earned you a five-minute opportunity to interact with your visitors.”
The woman on the screen disappeared, and the countdown timer appeared again. The image changed to one of a stark room with two rows of benches. In the back of the room, a justice enforcement officer, in full battle armor, stood silently. On one of the benches, Kadamba’s mom and dad sat quietly. H
is dad was holding his mom’s hands, stroking them, very obviously trying to comfort her, even as tears showed in his own eyes.
Kadamba scooted himself closer to the screen to see them better, but the tears welling up in his eyes blurred his vision. “Mom. Dad. I’m here.”
Almost in unison, his parents began spinning their heads around, calling his name and looking for a screen. His father stood and begged the guard, “Isn’t there anyway we can see our son? Where is the screen? Please, please help.” The enforcement officer remained motionless, with his helmet and visor hiding any hint of compassion or concern.
“Son, son, we can hear you, but we can’t see you. Are you alright?”
Kadamba choked back, as hard as he could, on the tears. He tried to sound strong, but through his sobs, all he could say was, “Yes, I’m okay,” and then, he didn’t mean to, but it just came out, “Dad, I’m scared.”
“It’s going to be okay, son. I promise. We’re doing everything we can,” assured his dad, trying as hard as he could to sound confident. His heart was pounding in his chest, and all he wanted to do was pull his son close, wrap his arms around him, and protect him.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make all this happen. I screwed up so bad.”
“Kadamba, it’s going to okay,” she comforted him, barely able to get the words out through the sobs and tears. Her little baby was hurting, and she could do nothing. She couldn’t even see him. She felt as if the world was being ripped apart, and she couldn’t even pull her little boy close. He was her youngest, and the pain and agony in his voice tore into her heart, worse than anything she could imagine.
“Son,” his father began again, as he regained some composure, “I don’t want you to worry. I’ve already called Mr. Thomathius. If anyone can find a way to get this straightened out, he’ll do it and do it quickly.”
That terrible, perky, fake voice let Kadamba know that he had 30 seconds left. His father exploded in anger, not understanding why they couldn’t talk longer. His mother, having turned an ashen shade, appeared to have trouble breathing. As her husband turned in panic towards her, Kadamba just kept repeating, “I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m so sorry.” And the screen went blank.
Kadamba completely collapsed on the floor. He continued to sob. He had done more than screw up his own life. He had utterly disappointed his parents, the two people whose love and care he had never questioned. He had crushed them too. He thought of his two older sisters, who had argued over who would care for their adorable, cute little brother. They would be devastated. He wondered how, and even if, he could ever face his own family again.
Once again, that terrible, happy voice irritatingly began to speak, “We are pleased to inform you that your initial conference with your Purostinov Justice Processing Center Representative will be held shortly. Your assigned representative is Ms. Ocampo Rasmussen. Your representative will process you in a timely and efficient manner. The Purostinov Justice Processing Center prides itself on having reduced spending on justice processing by an average of 3.8% for each of the last four years. Our goal of quick and effective justice processing is second to none.”
Kadamba pulled himself into a seated position and began staring at the end wall. The screen had disappeared, but he was sure that it would be back with this representative of his. Suddenly, the cell began to move, as if a giant hand had plucked it out of the stack, without disturbing any other cells. As suddenly as it had started, the cell stopped moving, slamming Kadamba into the end wall of his cell.
Kadamba attempted to sit back up, as the wall dematerialized, and he found himself looking up at two justice enforcement officers in full battle gear. One was pointing an energy blaster at him, and the other had a long stick in his hand, with a gun-like handle that the guard gripped.
Kadamba moved onto all fours, intending to stand, when the guard placed the end of the stick on his back, right below his neck. The end of the stick locked to his uniform, sending a jolt of current through Kadamba’s body. He felt like a pet on a leash, helpless to do anything, unless his master commanded it. The guard tugged on the handle, forcing Kadamba to stand. Kadamba, looking around, realized that he was in some type of interrogation room. There was a table with two chairs on its opposite sides. The guard led Kadamba to one of the chairs and forced him in it.
Another stream of electrical current surged through Kadamba, as one of the guards finally spoke. “Please comply” was all that he said while pointing at the table. On the table were the outlines of two arms. Apparently, he was supposed to put his hands and forearms flat on the table. Kadamba complied, and the moment his arms hit the table, straps rapidly emerged from beside his elbows and wrists, wrapping over the tops of his arms to clamp him tightly to the table. He felt a small surge as the guard’s stick released his uniform, and the guards exited the room.
Within a few moments, a rather short, overweight woman came into the room, carrying a glass. She had an unhappy and annoyed look about her, like she really didn’t want to be there. She sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table and waved her hands across the table, tapping it in a few places. A monitor appeared above one side the table, facing so that both of them could see it. She glared at him, let out a heavy sigh, and drank the entire contents of the glass.
“Mr. Vorhoor,” she began, with a terribly raspy-sounding voice, “I am Ocampo Rasmussen, your Purostinov Justice Processing Center Representative.”
“Where are my parents?” Kadamba asked, feeling the knot in his stomach growing tighter and tighter.
She tapped on the table again, and his photo appeared on the monitor, filling half the screen. The other half was packed with text. She glanced at it for a moment and then released another exasperated sigh. “You have already had your allotted time with your family and visitors. We are going to process you now. Considering the facts of this case, it will NOT take long.”
“I want to talk to my parents. Please.”
“Mr. Vorhoor,” she continued very sternly, as she tapped on a keyboard that had materialized on the table in front of her, “you are to be processed immediately. Your crimes have shifted you to adult processing. You will have no more visitors. Your processing will be done in an effective and efficient manner.”
Kadamba regarded her with an obvious look of shock on his face. She let out another annoyed, heavy sigh, and pressed a few more keys. She then pointed to the monitor.
It was a scene of the playground at Schmarlo’s Landing. He watched as the young boy to whom he had sold the rath came stumbling into the scene and collapsed. Panic ensued, and within a minute, Jundana was kneeling over the boy. He watched as the justice enforcement officer fired his weapon, knocking him unconscious. The medic, frantically digging in his bag, pulled out a syringe, shaped like a gun, and delivered something directly into the boy’s neck. The boy seemed to calm, and the foaming from his mouth began to slow. The medic said something to Jundana. In response, she looked down at the boy and then collapsed on the boy’s chest, obviously weeping and sobbing.
The screen went blank. Tears were running down Kadamba’s face. “What happened?”
Ocampo looked at Kadamba with a disgusted look on her face. “The boy had a reaction to the rath. The medic administered a sedative and pain killer to ease the boy’s passing. One in about a hundred people has a violent reaction to rath. Not one of them has survived.”
A sudden wave of nausea hit Kadamba. The woman quickly tapped the keyboard, and a hole with a basin appeared in the table between Kadamba’s strapped-down arms. A strap shot out of the table, wrapping itself around Kadamba’s neck, and pulled his face towards the opening. The woman sat glaring at Kadamba as he heaved and vomited what little food was in his stomach into the opening.
He tried to look up, but the strap held him down. He could see the revulsion on her face as she hit another key. Multiple streams of the burning astringent liquid hit his face, followed again by warm water. The strap re
leased its hold, and the hole disappeared.
Kadamba sat up. Time seemed to be suspended. He couldn’t place what he was feeling. Everything was surreal. It was as if he were trapped in a nightmare but couldn’t force himself to wake up. He sat there staring at the representative, not knowing what to do or say.
She let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. “Well, now that you’ve got that out of your system, let’s finish this up. The Crime Review Committee has offered you three options. Option number one is to face an LD trial. Option number two is a ten-year assignment with the Exorthium Extraction Company. And your final option is a twenty-five year incarceration with the Morphinia Containment Company.”
“Please. I don’t understand,” replied Kadamba.
“What’s to understand, Mr. Vorhoor? You were carrying enough rath to get everyone on Schmarlo’s Landing completely strung out for a month. You sold some to a child. He died. You are a drug dealer and a murderer. These are the facts—and those are your options.” Her eyes seemed completely devoid of any pity, and Kadamba could feel her hatred of him beginning to grow.
Kadamba closed his eyes, letting the reality of this come slamming into him. Alorus, the little boy, was dead. Was he Jundana’s little brother, cousin, or what? He completely had forgotten that he was carrying such an enormous amount of rath. That didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he had sold rath to the boy, and he knew he shouldn’t have. Now, the boy was dead.
“I want to talk to my parents,” begged Kadamba.
“Mr. Vorhoor, let me make this process very clear to you. We are very effective and efficient at processing justice cases. We do it quickly, neatly, and don’t waste any unnecessary funds. Your case has already been reviewed by the Crime Review Committee, and you have been given three options. Should you fail to make a selection by the end of this meeting, the Committee will make the selection for you.”
Ocampo Rasmussen, his “Purostinov Justice Processing Center Representative,” let a small, cruel smile form at the corners of her mouth. She looked at him with disdain, but it appeared that she was enjoying watching him struggle. Perhaps it was natural. He was a drug dealer. He was now a murderer too. She got to administer the hand of justice, and it was being brought down quickly and with finality.