REVELATION: Book One of THE RECARN CHRONICLES

by Gregory N. Taylor

  This flat had no such luxury; if you wanted food you had to go out and buy it from a supermarket, you had to physically leave your home, travel to the supermarket, and dictate your order to one of the many workers whose job it was to enter your requirements into a computer and then within ten minutes you were normally loading your food purchases into your car, before driving home. Like many of the middle class of the mid twenty-first century, Maurice had taken the automated ordering and delivery system that he had at his real house, his real home, for granted. Only now did he realise just how much he had been relying upon technology for the last few years.

  He was in the reception of the supermarket, waiting for his food order to be brought to him, evaluating his life. The police didn’t seem to be actively seeking him, quite possibly because there wasn’t anything to physically connect him to the murder of the footballer, Christian Marks, but he couldn’t hide what he had done from himself and his conscience was struggling to make sense of the whole situation. He had killed another human being, and his wife and children were probably in a better financial situation than they had been before he had ‘died in the car crash’. There was nothing to be gained – other than the selfish desire to be with his family – if he returned. If he gave himself up to the police it would only serve to make their crime solution statistics look a little better. He would be terminated by the judicial system. He felt he deserved termination by the State, but he couldn’t inflict upon Karen and the girls the stigma that would be hurled at them if the truth were to come out.

  He stood up from the padded bench that he had been sitting on and walked determinedly out of the store, turning right onto the main road. He didn’t even bother to take his car; it wasn’t really worth it, he’d only be walking about a mile, and he had no intention of making a return journey. A supermarket employee called out to him, holding a shopping basket of groceries up in the air, but Maurice ignored him. He had made up his mind.

  “Mr. Saunders! Mr. Saunders! You’ve forgotten your shopping!”

  Ten minutes later he could see his destination in the distance and his pace quickened. He continued to stride purposely until he reached the door of Paignton’s Self-Termination Centre, a large brick and glass building set in beautifully landscaped gardens. The doors slid open with a discreet whoosh as he approached them. Doors were almost superfluous as the centre never actually closed; it was open 24/7, 365 days a year. The necessity and desire to leave this world didn’t adhere to a declared schedule. The STC had to be available any time of the day or night.

  Maurice crossed the large communal reception area and approached one of the registration computers. Its screen flickered into life as he came to within a metre of it. A soothing voice spoke.

  “Good afternoon. Please speak slowly and clearly and give me your full name and identification number.”

  “My name is Richard Saunders, ID number 612/21646/5.”

  “Thank you Richard Saunders 612/21646/5. Have you entered this building of your own free will?”

  “Yes. I have.”

  “Thank you Richard Saunders 612/21646/5. Are you aware of the purpose of this facility?”

  “Yes, I am. Thank you.”

  Maurice had no idea why he was thanking a computer program. He put it down to force of habit. He’d always been a polite man.

  “Thank you Richard Saunders 612/21646/5. Please place your thumb over the optical reader for identification purposes.”

  Maurice did as he was told.

  “I’m sorry Richard Saunders 612/21646/5. There seems to be a problem with your identification process. Please try again.”

  Maurice suddenly realised that the machine was expecting to extract details from the thumbprint of Richard Saunders and not Maurice Boone. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small pad of thumbprints that he had been given as part of the relocation kit supplied by the Businessman. He placed the transparency containing Richard Saunders’s thumb ID onto the optical reader.

  ““Thank you Richard Saunders 612/21646/5. Please proceed through the blue door to your left.”

  This time Maurice managed to resist the urge to thank the computer, as he walked through the blue door and found himself in a preparation suite.

  He looked around and was surprised to see several naked people sitting on sofas dotted around the room. An elderly couple were seated side by side, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. Maurice assumed that they were coming to the end of their lives and didn’t want to be left alone in the world without the partner that they had loved for decades.

  A very attractive woman of about 40 years of age was standing facing a full-length mirror. Her eyes scanned the reflection of her body from head to toe. She really was beautiful, naturally beautiful, even without make-up. Her body was so perfect. Maurice had never seen a more beautiful, more perfect body in his life although he had to concede that the number of naked woman he had seen in his life was pretty low; so low that he could count the number on the fingers of one hand. But the woman, beautiful and perfect as she was, could only see fat thighs and rolls of unwanted fat around her belly. Maurice wanted to ask her why she was there but at the same time he didn’t want to engage in conversation with anyone else other than the termination centre staff. He didn’t want anyone to attempt to talk him out of the decision that he had arrived at after a month of sleepless and tormented nights.

  A slightly overweight and pleasantly jovial woman, dressed in a white overall and with the STC logo on her breast pocket, came into the room and beamed at Maurice.

  “Hello Mr. Saunders. Welcome to Paignton’s premier Temple of Departure.”

  It didn’t matter how the authorities tried to dress up the facility with euphemisms and sweet smelling flowers, nothing could hide the fact that this was a suicide centre. It felt strange to think that this was probably the last human that he’d ever see in this life. The last real person that he’d interact with. He began to wonder who he would be in his next life. Would he be a girl or a boy? Would he be rich or poor? In what country would he be born? The pleasant, jovial woman cleared her throat to get his attention. Maurice returned to the real world.

  “Sorry. My mind was elsewhere. Thank you.”

  “Now then my dear, my name is Leanne and I’ll be your attendant for this next part of your journey.”

  Leanne made it sound like he was taking a flight to a holiday destination instead of killing himself. She was definitely too full of the joys of spring for this job.

  “If you’d like to take your clothes off please?”

  “My what? My clothes?”

  “Yes, your clothes. There’s no point in being embarrassed my dear. We need the clothes to pass on to the needy and, even though they shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, they don’t like the idea of wearing clothes that other people have passed away in.”

  “All my clothes?”

  “Look around you, my dear. Even Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, that dear old couple making eyes at each other are naked as the day that they were born. And April – the goddess, who thinks she’s a fat bitch – she’s naked too. She must be crazy. She’s gorgeous. Why would a beautiful creature like her want to top herself? Go on love. Get your kit off. You won’t be alone.”

  Everybody who made the journey to these government facilities was told the same story. The clothes would go to a needy person. The reality was rather different. The reason why clients were asked to strip naked was to prevent them from changing their minds and leaving the facility. Their bodies would be cremated providing a valuable source of energy for the living. Since the Revelation, burials had been prohibited and cremations made compulsory, as the energy produced from cremations became a valuable commodity. Maurice reluctantly removed his clothes, folded them neatly and handed them to Leanne. She beamed at him again.

  “There you go my dear. That wasn’t so difficult was it?”

  Maurice had been expecting some kind of counselling, somebody to at least try to talk him
out of his decision to end his life. He certainly didn’t expect the process to be as swift and clinical as it appeared to be. His thought process was broken by Leanne’s cheerful voice again.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. Room number 1. April. Room number 2. Mr. Saunders. Room number 3. Chop, chop. We don’t have all day, you know.”

  The occupants of the preparation room shuffled into their respective rooms, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson still holding hands. Maurice had cupped his hands and was doing his best to protect his genitals from view as he walked awkwardly to his assigned room.

  He found himself in a sparsely furnished room, containing nothing but an armchair, a sofa and a portable piece of electrical equipment that sat upon a steel trolley. He stood in the middle of the room, like a lost child, as he had no idea what he was supposed to do now. The room wasn’t at all welcoming and he certainly didn't feel any inclination to sit down and relax. What a way to spend your last few minutes on Earth. He thought that these Self-Termination Centres might at least try to make the death experience as pleasant as such a thing could be, that there might at least be tasteful decor and soothing music, but this place was devoid of all atmosphere. People might just as well breathe their last breath in a storage container. If people outside had known how soulless these facilities were, there would certainly have been many complaints and something might have been done to improve the conditions, but the paradox was that nobody came out alive once they'd passed the registration procedure and so nobody else knew except the staff, who were just grateful to be employed.

  A very officious young woman entered the room. She had a white blouse with the top three buttons undone, a black pencil skirt, and high heel shoes. She seemed far too well dressed for assisting suicides and was oblivious to Maurice's nakedness.

  "Right. Let's get this over with. I haven't got all day."

  Maurice found himself missing Leanne. He didn’t like that yet another woman was seeing his naked body. And this one sounded quite aggressive. No, he didn’t like this one at all. At least Leanne tried to be nice. He felt really uncomfortable.

  “Where’s Leanne?”

  “Her shift’s ended. I’m in charge now. I’m Monica. In my opinion you don’t really need to know that, but the manual says I have to tell you my name.”

  Maurice was beginning to have second thoughts.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “No you haven’t.”

  “Yes. I have. I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Too late, mate.”

  No. Really. Can I have my clothes back please?”

  “Nobody changes their mind. Your clothes will be in an incinerator by now.”

  “What do you mean, in an incinerator?”

  “What I said.”

  “But Leanne said that they would be put aside and given to the poor.”

  “Yeah. She tells clients that to make them feel better about themselves. I don’t know why she bothers.”

  “But I don’t want to die now.”

  “You should have thought of that before you registered, Mr. Saunders.”

  But I’m not Mr. Saunders. I’m Maurice Boone.”

  “Your registration says your name is Saunders. The machine recognised your fingerprints as Richard Saunders. You can call yourself the Queen of Sheba for all I care. You’re registered. You’re in here. You’re going to die. That’s the rules.”

  She gestured towards the sparse furniture.

  "Sit down. Sofa or armchair. It doesn't bother me which."

  Maurice shuffled over to the armchair, all the way trying to keep his manhood hidden from sight. The young woman looked him in the eye.

  "There's no point in trying to hide that thing from me. I'll see it in glorious Technicolor when we're done here. I'll have to tape it to your thigh when you're dead so it doesn't flap about and get the porters agitated on the way to the incinerator.”

  Maurice was disturbed to feel his penis starting to engorge inside his cupped hands. That couldn’t be right. This woman was being a callous bitch to him and he was finding it a turn on? What the hell was wrong with him?

  The woman looked at where Maurice’s penis was straining to peep through his fingers and then she looked him in the eyes.

  “Getting a hard on, are we? You like being controlled by somebody else do you?”

  Maurice couldn’t understand why his body was reacting like this. He was definitely not into sadomasochism. He and Karen had had a very fulfilling sex life, but there was no bondage or dominatrix stuff. The woman unbuttoned her blouse completely, allowing Maurice to see her exposed breasts.

  “Enjoying yourself Mr. Saunders?”

  Maurice didn’t know where to look. He started to panic and shout.

  “Help! Somebody help me!”

  “Shouting won’t do you any good Mr. Saunders. These rooms are soundproofed because sometimes our visitors get distressed and start making a noise. The doors are locked too. The only way you’re going to leave here is in a coffin. Well, not so much a coffin, but a cardboard box.”

  Maurice lunged forwards and tried to overpower the woman, ignoring for a moment that he was stark naked, but she was surprisingly strong for her build and threw him back effortlessly into his chair. She placed her foot on the armchair, between his legs, and raised the hem of her skirt until it was almost above her thighs and ran her tongue along her lips.

  “Want some before you go, Richard?”

  “I don’t want anything. I’ve changed my mind. Let me go.”

  Maurice found it obscene how the young woman could abuse and destroy what should be an emotional experience, the last emotional experience of his life. It was ironic that the treatment dealt out at the STC was probably sufficiently brutal that it would have been an effective way of persuading would-be suicides to change their minds, but once registered there was definitely no turning back. The fact of the matter was that a continuing increase in the number of suicides was essential to keeping energy costs down. The cremation of bodies supplied valuable energy to the national grid and the reduction in the population meant that the planet's food resources could stretch that much further. These suicides were doing society a great service and society didn't want to lose such a plentiful, consistent and free resource.

  Suddenly there was a loud crash and the door flew open, a bolt of orange light shooting across the room causing the young woman to slump to the floor unconscious. Two dark clad figures in ski masks ran towards Maurice, grabbed him under the arms, and hoisted him off his feet, carrying him unceremoniously through the door and out of the building, before bundling him into the back seat of a waiting car. Once in the car, one of his kidnappers - Maurice wasn't sure if he was being kidnapped or rescued - covered him with a blanket.

  "Sorry Maurice. Did we interrupt something back there? You should be famous mate. Not a lot of people get out of these places alive… well, nobody really.”

  Maurice still felt very vulnerable.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any clothes I could change into? Please?”

  “As a matter of fact we do. Your clothes from your hotel room. When we get a chance you can put some clothes on, but it's not safe for you to change here and now. Just use the blanket for now"

  The car sped off leaving a cloud of dust in its wake and headed towards the nearest motorway junction. Time was of the essence and the driver and his colleague wanted to get as much distance between them and Paignton as possible. They drove quickly but not so fast as to attract attention. A naked man in the back seat of a stolen car would be particularly difficult to explain if they were stopped by the police. The driver entered the coordinates of the Welcome Break services at Junction 19 of the motorway into the Self-Drive System, and relaxed as the car drove itself to the destination at speeds of up to 150 mph. Since self-driving cars had become the norm, speed limits had more than doubled as the onboard computers and sensors made it almost impossible to have an
accident.

  About forty-five minutes later they pulled into the car park of the motorway services and the driver parked the car manually, some distance away from the rest of the parked vehicles. An SUV with darkened windows pulled up alongside their vehicle and they all changed vehicles, as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. Once in the new vehicle Maurice was given some clothes to put on and once he was dressed he became much more relaxed. He still wasn’t sure if he’d just been rescued or kidnapped but his captors or rescuers seemed amicable enough and were treating him quite well. Whichever they were he was grateful that they had got him out of that place because he definitely didn’t want to die just yet.

  The SUV continued its journey along the M4 motorway until junction 8/9. The vehicle hardly slowed as it left the motorway and cruised effortlessly along winding roads, weaving between other cars at speeds of up to 150 mph. Maurice marvelled at the efficiency and quick reactions of the self-drive system. He glanced over at the rescuer/captor sitting to his right in the back of the car.

  “I don’t know how we managed before self-drive technology took over our traffic. “

  “We managed like this. The last thing we want is to be traced. You do know that self-drive systems are integrated with GPS, don’t you? And if the car has GPS, then anyone can track it from their office desk or wherever they have a computer. Even from smartphones. So…we’ve taken out the self-drive system. The last thing we want is to be tracked by the government or anyone else for that matter.”

  “But, isn’t that illegal? All cars have to have self-drive technology nowadays, so they can drive fast but safe.”