“It is better for the non-conformists who hide from my bidding to kill themselves, than spending all the time and effort to keep them in line.”
–These are words from the Great Master’s mouth, trickled down to the entire population.
“OW!” Beaver said, grabbing his thigh.
The Vacu-bot ran into his side, almost knocking him off of the stool.
“Sorry Beet …” it said, as it scurried in a different direction.
The stupid domestic robot could never pronounce Beaver’s name correctly.
“Next trade off, I’m going to get a Tommymop and drop you on a pile of excrement in Stowelowly!” Beaver said with a shaken fist.
The term tommymop was part of a form of acceptable explicit language among the Academy patrons. The Tommymop or Autonomous cleaning device as it was officially known was the first model of many Academy issued failures. Quickly pulled from service, the Tommymop was known for horrific, disabling injuries caused by its bump and go action and spinning rotomop. It also had the ornate ability to spontaneously combust. This led to the slang vernacular of calling everything that was bad, lazy, or unacceptable a Tommymop.
“Now, Beaver2416 … you be are play nice.” The victual android said in a demanding tone.
Beaver laughed out loud, as he could not help himself. He then, got up from the creaking stool, and sat down in the comfortable Lev-seat. The progscreen suddenly illuminated and the wave holgraphia machine began to whir in synchronization. This was the only time of night that Beaver would ever sit in the Lev-seat. It was for two reasons: The first, being that it was time for the nightly report, which was nothing more than a biased news programme about what has happened today throughout New Judah. This was the only time each day that rather than the standard bombardment of pro-Academy, Pro-G.M. propaganda, it was remotely tolerable to Beaver. Secondly, because it was the last programme of the night before slumber; it would all turn off soon after.
Beaver slumped down in the chair, trying to make up for his moments of discomfort. As the screen brightened with colorful graphics, a very distinguished gentleman with plasticized grey hair materialized into view, sitting behind a Lev-desk. He had an electron-eye strapped on one side of his head, feeding the director’s instructions directly into his cerebellum. The eye flashed as the news information was relayed directly into his mind, controlling his every action by bypassing his cortical and subcortical network. This was to prevent any form of free-thought or rebellious actions on the part of the commentator.
Puppet people (or just P.P. for short) is how Beaver and Tim referred to them in secret.
This was very much true, because just one slip of the tongue or one outburst of free will, could spark a new ideology in the minds of followers of the Great Master. A sentence or even a word spoken that was a contra-position of the Edict was something that the Academy could not afford to happen. Truly, with all of their technology, weaponry, and social structuring; the Academy powers were merely a house of cards, when it came to the sheer power of their enslaved. Tim and Beaver knew more than anyone in Westbrook that in spite of their societal positioning and downtrodden placement, they were the majority.
The news anchor railed on about new, exciting uses for garbage and human excrement and debates on how the price of cinnamon could surpass Cumal in the coming spans.
“Finally!”--Beaver murmured to himself.
The newsperson outstretched his hand towards the Weath-girl. The sightglas shifted and focused upon a gleeful, mid-young woman giving the daily weather report and bright index. It was the only part of the programme that Beaver actually enjoyed. One reason was, with the Ionosphere in a state of flux from the Screen; the weather basically stayed the same year-round. New Judah’s meteorological features were so predictable that they had it timed to ticts. The Weath-girl always told the exact times there would be inclement conditions, like rare bursts of rain or even rarer snow; and when they would promptly leave.
The other reason is because, in spite of all the structure and regimen that the Academy powers thrust upon the entire populous, the Weath-girl was just there, telling information that was already common knowledge. It is information that is instantly beamed into the electronic brains of every android and servile robot, as well as found plastered on every progscreen. Canopies throughout New Judah automatically retract in times of bright and re-advance in times of rain or snow. Point blank: the Weath-girl was unneeded and served no purpose. This thought of a nonsensical action on the part of the Academy actually delighted Beaver greatly. Even though she too had an electron-eye, it was because of this irrationality on the part of the Academy; that he always perceived her as a rebel that did not conform to the system.
In short, Beaver2416 was a fan.
“Now back to you, Timore18 …” the Weath-girl said, as once again the sightglas shifted.
Beaver rolled his eyes and said to himself--“do it.”
This was because he knew what was going to happen next.
The commentator stood up from his Lev-desk and approached the sightglas with a beaming, plastic smile.
“Good dark to you all! And remember, all you cats and kittens out there … Strength, Discipline, and Order--SdotG!” Timore18 said, ending with a motion like swinging a golf club.
“Heathen …” Beaver grumbled quietly, as he shook his head.
The progscreen then flashed the words--now with honor, rise for our anthem and Great Master. Once again Academicis meis, mi Adoráte’ blared throughout the streets of Westbrook, only this time it was pre-recorded.
Beaver always felt this was so arrogant.
They just played the boring thing when the G.M. did his banter … why do they always have to play it again?--He thought to himself.
The progscreen flashed with images of valor, conflict, and the G.M. as he stood motionless and agitated. As the G.M. finished his hand waving and plastic smiles, he turned to look at a stylized, ani-map of the Academy conquered lands. A single tear fell from his left eye, just as the music stopped, signifying his love for his creation. Tim said, it was because a bug flew into his eye when they were filming. Beaver always had to restrain himself for laughing out loud when he saw it nightly, ever since he told him that.
Beaver as well as the victual android, raised their arms and said in unison “SdotG.” The progscreen then faded to black, and the entire house fell silent. Beaver then began counting out loud. Usually it happened at the number twelve however, he had made it as far as twenty seven before.
“12 … 13 … 14 …” then Beaver was suddenly interrupted.
“Time for slumber Beaver2416 … bed is preparatory.” Viki stated.
Beaver once again laughed at the victual android’s broken English. Many times he would just lie there staring at the walls, however this dark he was ready for bed. He started walking down the short hallway that led to the slumber room. Past the halfway point, an articulated ceil-bot dropped in front of his face, near the threshold of the sleep chamber.
“Did you sanitize yet?” it said already knowing the answer.
“No.” Beaver interjected, as he did every dark.
“Then march, mister!” the ceil-bot demanded, pointing towards the Basintory.
The Basintory was a small room adjacent to the slumber room. It had a steel mirror and a Lev-basin. The Lev-basin is a multi-purpose sanitation and sanitizing installation. It is used to capture human bodily waste as well as for the purpose of mouth sanitization with its long, jointed robotic appendage.
“Welcome Beaver2416!” the Lev-basin commented as the appendage inserted itself into his mouth. As the appendage cleaned Beaver’s teeth, gums, and tongue; the other part of the Lev-basin literally vacuumed out all of his waste matter through his goodi-port. Every Academy member from birth is fitted with a goodi-port that is surgically implanted to their right hip, and affixed in an internal pipeline network to the human bladder, bowels, and intestines. This was the Academy’s structure in place to keep everyone r
egimented, working, and without the mid-ancient excuse of “I have to go to the bathroom.” The Academy androids always know when you need servicing or not.
After mouth sanitation and waste evacuation, the Lev-basin then protracted a tube like device, locking onto another side port of Beaver’s oversuit. It then filled his neo-leather clothing with an ion-pos charged powder. The powder felt warm as it swirled inside of Beaver’s oversuit. This was the Omni-digital equivalent of a mid-ancient water and soap filled bath. Soon, all of the particles were vacuumed and the tube unlocked and retracted.
“Sanitization is complete…” the Lev-basin interjected as it retracted into its former position. As Beaver left the basintory, the ceil-bot once again prevented him from the slumber room.
“Did you sanitize yet?” the ceil-bot again demanded.
“Yes!” Beaver said in a sarcastic tone. It was so stupid to him, how the robotic sentry always asked the same question twice.
Why twice?! Why not just ask once and get out of the way?!--Beaver thought to himself, with a frown upon his face. This perpetual annoyance was another major reason why Beaver hated the Academy. The Academy techniques of Love / Master were filled to the brim with constant repetitions and affirmations towards the Great Master.
Always repeating … always reassuring … always reaffirming—this mechanized annoyance in front of Beaver’s face was of no exception to such programming.
“Good! Now … get to sleep!” the Ceil-bot said in an equally sarcastic tone, as it once again folded into the ceiling.
He could only roll his eyes in disgust.
Upon Beaver’s entry into the sleep chamber, the entire room emitted pulsations of red-blue-green light as well as a fine mist of psychotropic drugs filled the air. This was to prepare the mind for entry into a trance-like state. This technique had many, many incarnations. In the early primary spans of this technology, many succumbed to comas and death. Later versions came with wide-spread convulsions and even insanity. However with Beaver’s model, for 2 spans there has been no report of any type of mishaps, other than a slight burning sensation.
Why the Academy would take this risk of bodily harm upon the dwellers of Westbrook in the first place, is because even in the realm of dreams, the Great Master MUST rule and reign. To have random people having random thoughts and dreams would be dangerous to any regimented society. The ability of freethought or freedream could ultimately bring people to the conclusion that the GM was evil or false. Or much worse, encourage them to be rebellious and lead others into their rebellion.
The Academy powers know that dreams make leaders and many well-lead thoughts make dreams.
To Beaver however, all of the pulse halonone lighting and mind altering drugs had no effect. He of course, went to great lengths to keep this hidden from his captors. Beaver’s sociopathy could make him mimic almost anything that an Academy android was expecting, even to the point of greatly slowing down his heart rate. This over-reliance on autonomy, he always saw as another fatal flaw to the grip of the Academy.
If I can trick them all, maybe someone else could as well … he thought to himself. Another ceil-bot appeared with long appendage like arms and removed Beaver’s oversuit, replacing it with more suitable attire for sleep.
“This is much nicer …”--it spoke in a soothing female voice--“There … I hope that is more to your liking.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Beaver interjected and then moved into the proper position, next to the vertical sleep vessel. The auto-straps loosely cinched around his ankles, waist, and wrists. With Beaver secured, the sleep vessel then whirred and slowly moved from its vertical upright position to a 12 degree horizontal angle.
“Good dark …” the female voice gently whispered from the ceiling of the sleep chamber. “Good dark to you …” Beaver mumbled, as he quickly drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 3:
Beaver awoke to find his auto-straps loosened and the sun brightening the walls of the sleep chamber, through a small porthole window.
“Decision day …” Beaver said to himself with a partial smile.
He had slept at least 2 procs more than usual. This was highly unusual for Beaver2416. Regardless of the day, Beaver was very punctual. The reason, because of all of the beatings he received as a child star. Every time he missed a holopram appearance or was late to an Elitist event, it was a public laugh and smile; followed by the crack of an electro-whip when he was behind closed doors.
“Oh my--I’m late!” he said as came to himself. Beaver rushed to the bureau, grabbed a fresh oversuit and quickly put it on. With it being Decision day, the nice ceil-bot was basically switched off, so he had dress himself. As he dashed from the sleep chamber, a voice called from the basintory.
“Sanitation is recommended …” the Lev-basin resounded.
“Oh, get it over with!” Beaver rudely vented in agitation, as he stomped into the basintory.
“I am … and watch your tone.”
Almost every servile robot was set into suspended animation, except for the transports, sentries, and the basintories. (for obvious reasons) The Lev-basin clicked and whirred, as went to its work. After a few moments the familiar “Sanitation is complete…” bellowed. The autonomy then detached and returned to its former placement. Beaver quickly stormed out in a huff. He never liked to be late to anything.
Upon sight of the threshold of the entryway, Beaver could see Timmy2845 standing in the pathway with great agitation.
“Finally!” Timmy shouted, with his hand on his hip, “I was about to leave without the likes of you!”
“I’m sorry … I overslept.” Beaver said with a solemnity.
Every Decision day consisted of the same ritual. Tim would show up at Beaver’s house, and then they would take a transport into Stowelowly. Like young boys traipsing into the woods, they did this looking for whatever trouble they could get into.
“Come on! We are going to miss the next transport!” Timmy again shouted. Like children, they both raced towards the trackstreet. As the transport slowly pulled away, the duo leaped onto the side, grabbing and swinging on the rev-pole, and flung themselves into an empty seat.
“Safety is empirical,” the mechanized driver said with his robotic head turned towards Beaver and Tim. They could not help themselves from laughing out loud at the driver’s statement. It was a rare treat to seem rebellious, even though it was nothing more than what the average child would do. Normally, such an outburst would merit the complete stoppage of the transport, followed by the ear-piercing screech of a Hen-whistle.
The slang Hen-whistle or more correctly, Hypersonic Crowd Disbursement Device (HCDD) was something partially invented in the mid-ancient era that was greatly improved upon by Academy scientists. It is so effective there usually was no need for roving bands of riot police or other military throughout the streets of New Judah. The small mounted weapon would simply target the offender with the greatest of accuracy. Then, blast them with an intensive, focused beam of hypersonic sound waves that could knock a person off their feet, even rendering them unconscious. Many, who have succumbed to the call of the hen-whistle, compare the sensation to being punched in the face by a Boxwrestling champion. However, seeing that it was a Decision day, the mechanized driver was luckily pre-set to ignore such juvenile behavior from the likes of Beaver and Tim.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get busted in the chops from old Henny!” a nearby patron stated as he looked at Tim and Beaver with widened eyes. He had a scraggly face and was dressed in tattered clothes. Beaver studied him attentively as he spoke, as if he somehow had met him before, in another place.
“Excuse me--what are chops!? I have always wondered what they were.” Timmy rudely intruded.
The man just rolled his eyes and turned back around in his seat.
“OW! What was that for?” Tim said grasping his arm in pain.
“Quit being rude …” Beaver said with a staunch persona.
“I was only trying to get inform
ation. I’ve heard that expression all my life, and yet no one knows what a chop is.”
“Still … it’s rude to be so cynical all the time.”
The moments ticked by as they sat in silence on the path to Stowelowly. They both prostrated in agitation of each other, much like a dating couple. They would not as so much look at one another.
“… you know, by the way you both act I would guess that you were enjoined in union.” The strange man in front of them once again spoke.
The duo let out a huff at such an absurd statement.
“To answer your question--Chop comes from an ancient word meaning ‘face or lip.’ It is also in reference to certain cuts of meat from many extinct animals.” The strange man told, as if he was a savant or oracle of useless knowledge.
“Thank you!” Timmy said, with his arms still crossed in agitation.
“Any time…” the strange man stated as he turned back around in his seat.
Again, they sat in silence as Stowelowly started to breach the horizon. Beaver thought hard about their near-by visitor. It was a very dangerous thing to attempt to make acquaintances among the population. On a routine basis, the Academy would send out spies, known far and wide as turncoats. Their purpose was to intermingle and befriend anyone the Academy deemed to be flirting with disaster, against the Edict. This was of course to gain their trust, find out their hidden information to report, and ultimately destroy them.
With a face of great contemplation, Beaver carefully spoke, “Wh … what’s your name?”
It was a very rare occurrence for Beaver, or for that matter anyone else; to ask this sort of question. Timmy2845 looked shocked as if transport was about to crash, or the sky was falling.
“BEAVER!” Timmy shouted and hit Beaver’s arm.
Beaver did not move in retaliation, as he knew fully why Tim had hit him. He just sat attentively staring at the stranger’s head, hoping for an honest reply. After a few moments, the transport stopped.
Beaver2416 (Reviler's Affray) Page 4