FERTS

by Grace Hudson

  “No I don’t, well, sometimes. No, not really.”

  “It’s not good enough. You know that 201.”

  “But… “

  “No buts. And work on your attraction technique. It’s terrible.”

  “Yes, Harold.” 201 struggled not to roll her eyes. Harold was a kind man from what she had seen, but she had no desire to test that theory.

  “I should like to see you out of here, out of Epsilon. Do you think you can try, for me?”

  “Why?”

  “You ask too many questions, I told you that before. Can you do this, for me?”

  201 thought for a moment, weighing up her non-existent options.

  “Okay, but only for you, Harold.” She smiled sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

  “And no sarcasm. You may think you are able to fool them, but not me.” 201’s face fell. She really was terrible at this.

  – 4 –

  Cerberus hesitated, pausing outside the finely carved door. The rooms were always dark at this time of the evening. The Pinnacle Officer’s rooms were tucked away in the highest level of FERTS, access by special arrangement only. Few Officers, let alone Operators, were granted access. His personal domicile covered much of the top floor of the complex, plushly decorated in shades of magenta and mahogany. The entrance to the main study was flanked by two Officers, dressed in black, faces stoic. Their large frames dominated the atrium housing the entrance to Wilcox’s main office. Neither of the Officers made eye contact, but he knew they observed every minute detail of his movements as he readied himself for the regular review update. He checked his clipboard one more time, then knocked.

  “Come.”

  “Sir.” Cerberus entered the study, eyes adjusting to the darkness within. Pinnacle Officer Wilcox sat in his usual corner, smartly dressed in casual Officer issue. His clothes were silver, unlike the rest of the Officers, and his shaved head caught the glow from his desk lamp as he looked up at the Officer before him.

  “Cerberus. Please. Take a seat.” He gestured to a smaller seat at the end of the desk. Cerberus promptly sat, sliding the clipboard across the desk for perusal.

  “Three escape attempts this month. All recovered.” Wilcox nodded subtly, turning to the next page. If he had noticed that Cerberus had failed to use the term ‘recaptured’, he made no indication.

  “That all?”

  “Sir. The list of Zeta recommendations.” Wilcox flipped to the next page, scanning the long list of names, his eyes rested on the figure at the end of the page.

  “Hmm.” He smoothed his hand over his ear, rubbing his thumb idly over his mouth. “Up to thirty-seven this month. That is acceptable. Birthers?”

  Cerberus reached out for the clipboard, then thought better of it, retracting his hand. “Fifteen. Three expired.”

  “Sires?”

  “Five.”

  “Lodge the transfer orders for Resident Citizen placement for the Sires.”

  “It has been done. The Vendees and school placement heads have been informed.”

  “Any potentials from the rest of the new pool?”

  “Two with good potential birthing prospects, birthers were Beta, 8.2 Vassals and above.”

  “Keep these two only. Transfer the rest to Zeta. Is that all?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Sir.” Cerberus backed out of the room, eyes steady as Wilcox returned to The Beth Register on his undamaged but dusty screen, scrolling through the marked shortlist. The Beth Register listed all Internees in Beta, Omega and Epsilon, detailing their attractiveness ratings and compiling a listing of each Internee’s characteristics.

  “Oh, and Cerberus?” He clicked on a key, as the screen displayed a Beta Internee, a blonde with blue eyes. Her statistics loaded crudely one by one around her image, numbers appearing in each box, illuminating the screen with a green glow.

  “Let’s see.” He clicked again, zooming in on her shapely legs. “Send up Beth 259212.”

  – 5 –

  201 retired to her chamber after night rations. She sat on her bed, seduction technique manual laid out before her. The first page was simple, at least for her former fellow Internees at Beta. It seemed she was always trying to catch up, while the others just seemed more… natural at seduction.

  The first page read: ‘When interacting with a potential Vendee, a Vassal must lower the head, always looking upwards in deference, half closing the eyes to accentuate the lashes. A Vassal must speak only when asked to do so.’

  201 rolled her eyes. She could not seem to grasp the concept of waiting for permission to speak. Sometimes she had so much to say, it seemed nonsensical to seek approval for the privilege. Harold was certainly vocal in his disapproval of 201’s predilection for speaking out of turn, and he was unimpressed with her lack of skills when it came to her professed enticement and charm. No matter how 201 looked at it, she could not ascertain how she would overcome this obstacle to promotion back to Omega and her possible conferral of Vassal status. Becoming a Vassal was the ultimate distinction for any Internee, though only Betas and Omegas were given this chance. At present, 201 was saddled with her status at Epsilon, her promotion to Fighter looking like the only possibility for advancement at this stage in her development. Once she received nomination for the Epsilon Chance Wheel, she could, potentially, become a Fighter and receive the acclaim of FERTS through victories in the Epsilon Games Ring.

  201 reluctantly turned to the next page, steeling herself for the insights within. ‘A Vassal must be understanding of her status at all times. A Vassal must show submission to all potential Vendees, Resident Citizens, Officers, Operators and Sires.’

  201 blew out a breath, disheartened. She muttered sardonically to herself, the words sounding through her empty chambers. “A Vassal must show submission to… basically everyone. Except other Vassals. A Vassal may show authority over non-Vassals, and Internees of Epsilon, Kappa and Zeta Circuit. Though nobody has ever seen a Zeta Circuit Internee, unless they are, themselves relegated to Zeta Circuit, and therefore, there is not much need to feel superior to anybody.”

  201 turned the page, pressing on, despondency setting in.

  You should know this by now. You have been learning this since you were a little one. Why can’t you assimilate this information like all the others before you?

  ‘A Vassal’s sole purpose is to provide pleasure to their Vendee. If it is the will of the Vendee, then it is the Vassal’s duty to provide birthing duties. The results of this birthing are the sole property of FERTS, and FERTS holds the authority to make any decision deemed necessary in such matters.’

  201 scrunched up her nose at the prospect. She had seen birthers in Beta, their faces radiant with barely contained pride, holding the little ones tightly and petting their tiny heads, the other Beta Vassals crowding and exalting their achievements. The little ones did not stay with the birthers for long, 201 noted. The Sires were treated with the utmost reverence, the others were paid little regard. The birthers did not seem to mind when the little ones were taken, pleased with their duty to FERTS as a Vassal and a birther. They had reached the height of distinction, and could be duly proud of their achievements.

  201 knew that she did not wish to be a birther, though Harold and many others had made it clear that her wishes had no bearing on the matter. Perhaps Harold was right, 201 just needed to learn the information that she had conveniently ignored as much as was possible up to this point.

  “Concentrate, 201.”

  She turned the page, struggling to empty her mind and simply absorb the information on the page in front of her.

  ‘If a Vassal is given a request from a Vendee, a Vassal must comply unconditionally. A Vassal must treat each word from a Vendee as a command, and a Vendee will not enjoy making a request twice. A Vassal must comply with each and every need of the Vendee, without question.’

  201 skipped a few pages, growing tired of the endless requirements.

  ‘When a Vassal is sold to a Vendee, the Vassal is the sol
e property of that Vendee for the duration of the arrangement. A Vendee will do with a Vassal as they wish, with impunity.’

  201 did not always understand every concept arising in the manual. This particular section, however, made 201 feel unsure, even fearful, though she did not know why.

  She placed the book next to her bed, wrapped herself up in the coverings and waited for sleep. The bland, piped music filtered through to her ears and she found herself drifting, clearing her mind of troubled thoughts and settling towards sleep.

  – 6 –

  That night she dreamed of a droning sound, a blaring, garish hum that hurt her ears and made her chest constrict alarmingly. She found herself panting, hunched over, hand on the rough, unfamiliar surface. She glanced up to find she was clinging to a tree, one of the trees that grew outside her window, the rough, pebbled surface chafing her palm. She felt the pulse entering her being, her heart beating faster, and faster. She knew she was done for but there was nothing more to be found by turning back. The ward zone was behind her now, and she knew she would not return, no matter what the consequence. 201 felt desperation coming off her body in waves as she turned to a rocky outcrop spreading before her, vast and desolate.

  The suspension zone.

  201 did not know the origin of this voice, but she felt it to be true. Somewhere, far beyond this 'suspension zone', was something new, something different, and she was certain, something better.

  She felt herself move forward, standing tall, and pushing forwards, regardless of the palpitations within her chest. The pounding of her heart grew louder, and louder, as she felt the first spike shooting through her chest, explosions sounding in her ears. She jerked, chest arching without her consent. She pushed forward, eyes on the rocks and barren plains of the suspension zone. She jerked again, frozen, pinned to the spot, another buzzing shock reverberating through her chest and dissipating throughout her body. She could hear a distant screaming, not realizing it was coming from her own mouth. She slumped, curled in on herself, fingers clinging to the barren ground, and felt no more.

  – 7 –

  “Line check!” The Officer’s voice rang out, jarring 201 from her contemplation. She straightened her shoulders and stood to attention. The Epsilon beauty pill from this morning remained lodged in her throat, tickling uncomfortably.

  “Internees of Epsilon. We are gathered here to send our gratitude to Pinnacle Officer Wilcox and FERTS, for our daily provision and protection from those who would seek to strike against our Vassals, our Fighters and our Internees.”

  “We send our gratitude to Pinnacle Officer Wilcox and FERTS,” the line replied, 201 calling out the words with enthusiasm.

  “All Internees report to ration room before training commencement.”

  201 poked her head from the long line of faces, searching for 232. Her companion was in her usual place, four chambers to the right, filing through with the other Internees. 201 slowed her pace so 232 could catch up. 232’s numbers glowed from her jumpsuit’s panel insignia. 259232 23Y. 232 had been in Epsilon for longer than 201, her two years of training as a Fighter had made her strong, wiry muscles gently framing her lean form. Her dark brown hair swished behind her as she walked, freckles standing out from her pleasing features. Her attractiveness rating was last recorded at 7.5, most likely due to her freckles and breaking muscle mass regulations while in Omega Circuit.

  “Did you sneak off to the exercise room again last night?” 232 nudged 201’s shoulder, grinning mischievously.

  “Not this time,” 201 muttered, distracted. “I need to lose muscle mass this time, not gain it. Got a negative appraisal for muscle mass.”

  “You need to make up your mind. Are you going to be a Fighter, like me, or are you going to be one of those fragile pretty things up in Omega?”

  201 shook her head. “I don’t know. I like fighting, I think I’m good at it.”

  “You are. Not as good as me, of course, but you could do well.”

  “I’ve only been training for a couple of months.”

  “You don’t have many months left,” 232 mused, flicking the numbers on 201’s insignia. “Look, you’re a 24Y now. Not long. That’s what they say, anyway.”

  “I know. I can’t decide. I don’t want to be a Vassal, but I don’t want to get hurt in the hall arena.”

  232 shook her head. “That is what happens in the arena. You might need to check your understanding of fighting next time.” They seated themselves at the ration tables, shuffling down the metal seats until they reached the other Internees.

  “But seriously, 201. You are a good Fighter, you know you are, I know you are. I just… I think you should maybe try to move up for promotion. Once you’re hurt, that’s the end of it for any chance of promotion. For me, I don’t need to worry so much, but you could get back up without any trouble.”

  “I’d miss you, though. I don’t know anyone else, really.” 201 pushed her regulation food around on her metal tray, grimacing.

  “I’d miss you too. But you need to do what is best for you. And it could be that maybe fighting isn’t for you.” 232 began to eat the regulation protein ration, wrinkling her nose in disapproval.

  “What is the point? I don’t even want to be sold to a Vendee. The idea frightens me.”

  A couple of curious Epsilon Internees turned to stare.

  Internee 272 leaned in. “You should not be saying such things. Unless, of course, you want a demotion to Zeta Circuit.” 232 inhaled sharply, giving 201 a warning look.

  “What do you know of Zeta Circuit?” 201 shot back.

  “222 was sent there last year. I knew her, her chambers were next to mine for a time.”

  “Why was she sent to Zeta?”

  “She tried to run, the usual reason. They found her, got her back. It was the beacon that stopped her.”

  201 shook her head. “That cannot be true. They say nobody is promoted from Zeta, it’s one way only. So, how did she tell you anything? How did you even see her?”

  272 lowered her voice, glancing around the table at the various unconcerned faces, busy with eating and noisily discussing various fighting techniques and training routines.

  “I saw her once, when I got lost coming back between the training and games hall, I forgot which floor it was I needed to find. She was in a caged room at the end of a long hall with all the other Zeta Internees, their jumpsuits were grey, that’s how I knew who they were. I managed to speak to her, just for a moment, from between the bars.”

  “What did she say?” 201 whispered, lowering her voice to match 272’s. 272 shifted closer, making sure to keep out of hearing distance from any Ration Officer that might be passing their little group.

  “It was cold, so cold there. There were no fires to heat that part, the area where they were staying. It was hard to hear her above the other Zeta Internees. They were crying.” 272 looked pained for a moment, then continued. “She looked so sick, I don’t know if they get full rations. They all looked sick. She said to me, ‘Don’t ever come here. Make sure you tell the others. There is nothing here.’ I had to leave before one of the Officers arrived. I could hear him coming down the hall.”

  “You never saw her after that?” 272 shook her head.

  “I remembered the way, all the turns, all the doors and floors. I tried once, it was hard to take such a risk, but she wasn’t there. The room was full of Zeta Internees, but I couldn’t find her. I had to stop trying after that. She had warned me never to come again, so I stopped.” 272 paused, looking blankly across the tables of the ration room.

  “272 is right. We should not talk of this. It is not safe.” 232 leaned in closer to 201’s ear. “At least, not here. You must be careful of what you say, and who you say it to. You cannot trust, be careful not to trust.” The last part was whispered, barely audible to 201’s ear, let alone the surrounding Internees.

  “I trust you,” 201 whispered, darting her eyes to 232’s.

  232’s blue eyes began to twinkle.
“Yes, I trust you too. But no one else, understand?”

  201 nodded, attempting to take a bite from one of the watery tasting squares of regulation protein.

  – 8 –

  Pinnacle Officer Wilcox sat at his desk, surrounded by dim light. He had shaved this night, face first, then his head, so as not to dull the blade. This was his regulation order, one he had devised for himself, and for his Officers. All activity could only run according to a predetermined order, anything else was chaos, much like the period succeeding the war.

  The war had been a messy business. The technology was crude, in Wilcox’s opinion, much of the damage caused by overuse of gunpowder and various other explosive materials. The planes that dropped these payloads were small, and less than powerful due to the rudimentary nature of the planes’ engines. Had Wilcox been in command of the troops during these dark times, he would have spent his time on research, on technology, development and refinement of design to create a new breed of weapon, perhaps something that could be remotely discharged from a great distance away. Instead, the battles had been cumbersome, flying from township to township, systematically destroying as many structures as possible. The other side had been equally armed, so for each township destroyed by one, another was destroyed in retaliation. Soon came the time when there were so few resources such as fuel and metals, hampering the efforts of the ongoing battles. There were so few townspeople left, and comparatively fewer soldiers, that it became clear that the war could not go on. By that stage, there were no real groups remaining to claim victory, just a few stragglers with no direction, and nowhere to call home.

  His thin mouth curled up in a smirk, insignia glowing in the muted glow of the lamp. He had achieved so much in his time, engineering and creating a new order, a solution to the chaos. But there was so much yet to accomplish, he told himself. This was no time to get complacent.