FERTS

by Grace Hudson

  “201! Where are the weapons?” 207 burst into the room, flustered, eyes darting around.

  “On the ready table, where they always are.” 201 motioned to the table as 207 hurriedly gathered up a trident, a scimitar, the shotel and a spatha.

  “Hey 207?”

  207 turned, her copper hair flying, her blue eyes animated, attempting to cling onto the weapons with her heavy mail gloves.

  “Yes?”

  “Wish 285 good fortune for her fight.”

  207’s distracted grimace softened, relaxing into a smile.

  “Yes, of course, I will do that. Thanks, 201.”

  201 smiled, perching herself on the ready table, listening to the cries of the crowd rising and falling, the hollow jubilance stabbing at her senses. Head bowed, she swung her legs forwards, then backwards, forwards then backwards, feet rising and falling from her field of vision.

  The gong sounded down the hall, the signal that fighting had commenced. Another cheer welled up before trailing into a dull chatter. The clash of steel on steel caused the hairs on 201’s arms to rise all at once, as if pulled by strings. She could almost see the fight, 285’s face enlivened by the thrill of battle. She could not picture the opponent, only a vague sense of her abilities filtered through her consciousness. 285’s opponent was experienced and formidable, a good match. However, almost immediately, she could feel the inequality of the fight once it was underway. The opponent was cunning, easily trumping 285’s open, straightforward nature. 201 began to feel a little sick.

  Another clash of steel and a scream rang out, followed by a heavy silence. 201 held her breath, waiting for something, anything to break the tension. She heard a cough, then an exultant cheer rose up from the Games Ring, filtering down the hall, trickling into the confines of the weapons room. The gong sounded out and the clink of cider mugs grew louder, interspersed with shouts and raucous babble.

  The next time she saw 207, her familiar cheerful features were unrecognizable underneath the mask of shock. 201 didn’t need to ask, and instead chose not to speak at all. The sounds of mail and steel shuffled towards her, jangling erratically.

  207 stepped forward, shaking fingers handing over the trident, the tips lightly dusted with flecks of blood and a few blonde hairs. The handle, however, was stained a bright red, the blood soaked deeply through to the heart of the wood.

  – 12 –

  201 curled in bed, trying to put all thoughts of 285 out of her head. She attempted to distract herself by reading the seduction manual once more, the illustrations within making her feel uncomfortable, and more than a little sick.

  ‘A Vassal must succumb to the advances of the Vendee. If a Vassal refuses a Vendees advances, the Vendee has authorization to take by force. A Vassal must try to relax, as a tense Vassal will find it disagreeable as the coupling commences.’

  201 closed the book, disgusted by the crude illustrations and the thought of being charged with such an undertaking. She tossed the book to the side, pulling the covers around her, the piped music seeping into her being, lulling her to oblivion.

  That night 201 dreamed of earth, and fresh grasses, much like the ones that grew outside her window, far from reach. She saw boots tramping, their points piercing her field of vision, her gaze tilted down to behold only the earth and the grass beneath her. The sounds of running water filled her ears. Narrowing her gaze, her boots looked strange, as if her feet were too big or too small, it was difficult to tell. She was running, unfamiliar sounds crunching underfoot as she heard her own breathing, panting, wheezing. The boots poked into her vision once more and it was only then she saw they were spattered with blood.

  I am free. I am free. I am free.

  She stopped, her vision swinging around to take in a large, wondrous expanse of earth, with grasses, trees and shrubs. She approached the rushing sound, washing her hands in the running waters, the coolness seeping into her being.

  Suddenly she heard a snort. It was thick, and low. It seemed to echo in the space surrounding her. Fear prickled and itched at her temples, sweat gathering and trickling down behind her ear. A resonant, whining bellow erupted behind her and she fell to her knees, turning her head, afraid of what she might see there.

  I am not alone. I am not alone. I am not alone.

  – 13 –

  “Line Check!”

  “Internees of Epsilon. We will 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 peered down the line of Internees, spotting 232. 232’s eyes were cast downwards, it was clear she had not slept well, or perhaps not at all.

  201 slowed her pace to the ration room, allowing 232 to catch up. 232 took more time than usual this morning, moving at a sluggish rate.

  “Everyone’s talking about it already.”

  “I know. I heard.”

  “I was there 201. I saw her fall. She was pierced through the chest. There was a lot of blood.” 232’s face was pale, eyes trained elsewhere, seeing, remembering.

  “Do you still want to fight?” 201 asked, studying 232’s tired features.

  “Of course. It is not the first time I have seen a Fighter fall, and it will not be the last. Next month, I believe I will nominated for the wheel. Reno thinks I’m ready, and he would not let a novice enter the Games Ring.”

  “He doesn’t think I’m close to being a Fighter yet. Perhaps a few more months of training.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “She expired proud, as a true Fighter.” 232 hardened her features, staring ahead.

  201 nodded, following 232 into the ration hall.

  “Do you ever wonder about it? About why we must do this, why we must be Vassals, or Fighters? I mean, supposing there were no Games? Do you ever wonder if one day, we could be something else? What it would be like, perhaps, to be… free from this?”

  232 swung around, eyes flashing with tears.

  “Do not say such things! Not those words, not now. 285 expired a true Fighter, proud and strong. We must venerate the memory of her contribution, you must not degrade her achievements again. You will speak no more of this.”

  232 pushed forward into the crowd of Epsilon Internees, choosing a seat on the bench near another group of fight trainees. 201 sunk to her usual spot, an unfamiliar Internee to her left perched in the spot typically saved for 232.

  – 14 –

  That evening, 201 could not sleep. Her disagreement with 232 played on her mind. She oscillated from being furious at 232 for not listening to her point of view, and feeling sorrowful for interfering with the quiet veneration of 285’s achievements.

  But what has 285 achieved, other than expiration?

  Her mind wandered, taking her to far off places, and people she did not recognize or understand. There was warmth, and pleasant scents, and most wonderfully, the sparkling sound of true, unbridled laughter.

  Somewhere, there is more than this. I must find it.

  Another voice trailed into her thoughts, familiar and soothing, wrapping around her mind and lilting her to sleep.

  One day, I believe we, all of us, will be free.

  – 15 –

  “Line Check!”

  The Officer recited the FERTS Requital, pausing for the response from the line.

  “We send our gratitude to Pinnacle Officer Wilcox and FERTS,” came the murmured reply.

  201 peered down the row to pick 232 out of the Internees, standing to attention. For the past few weeks, 232 had refused meet 201’s eyes, no matter how forcefully 201 tried to catch her attention. 232 did not catch up to match her footsteps, nor did she sit at the ration bench in her usual spot.

  201 poked at the regulation protein, dissecting it into pieces and pushing them around her plate. She had missed her beauty pill most days this week, too distracted b
y the animosity between her and 232. She wanted to scream, to apologize, to have 232 apologize to her for the disagreement. She fought the urge to push past the other Internees and confront 232, to do something to fix things back to the way they were before. But she did not move, and the conversations continued, the murmured veneration of 285, the results of the fight, anticipation for the next shot at the Epsilon Chance Wheel.

  Suddenly, her stomach clenched violently and she lurched forward, hugging herself tightly.

  The Internee on her left, 278, reached out and gripped 201’s shoulder.

  “Uh, 201, is it? Are you alright?”

  201 tried to speak, but her words were swallowed by another bout of pain.

  “Come, 201, I will take you back to your chambers. You are not well. You do not want Reno to get word of this or he will never let you fight. Come on.”

  201 attempted to stand straight but the pain was too intense. She settled for bending down, hunched over as 278 guided her back through the walkway to her chambers.

  “Here, lie down. I will get you some water.”

  201 felt a dull snap deep within her and suddenly there was wetness trickling from between her legs. 201 went cold with fear. She pressed her legs together tightly, attempting to stop the flow.

  What is happening to me? Am I expiring?

  278 handed her the water, oblivious to the blood seeping through the inner seams of 201’s jumpsuit.

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, I’m glad you can talk. I was starting to wonder.”

  “Thank you for helping me. I think I just need to lie down. It seemed the rations did not agree with me today.”

  278 nodded. “Don’t worry, the rations don’t agree with me on any day.”

  201 attempted to smile, resulting in a half-grimace.

  “I will leave you to rest now. It seems you will miss the Fighter selection this day.”

  “Perhaps that is just as well. I would do no good in the Games Ring as I am right now. Again, thank you. It was kind of you to help.”

  “Wish me good fortune then, I am up for selection tonight.”

  “Good fortune to you. I hope you are successful.”

  278 left with quick strides, the door sucking shut behind her.

  201 leapt from the bed as soon as 278 was out of view. She rushed to the bathroom, stripping off her clothes to find that yes, she was indeed bleeding. Terrified, she showered briskly, trying to clean all traces of blood from her body. She wrapped herself in a towel, fastening it in a knot like an undergarment. She draped herself in another towel and filled the bath with cold, not hot water. Her time in the weapons room had taught her that cold water was the only thing that could remove blood from cloth. Cold water, plenty of soap and time to soak. Exhausted, she dragged herself back to her bed, clutching at her aching belly and curling in a ball, wrapping the coverings around her until she began to feel warm. As the pain ebbed away and the tension finally drained from her body, 201 slept.

  – 16 –

  Her body ached and she was soaked with sweat. 201 had overslept and missed morning line check. A cursory glance into her chambers was all she received from the Officer on duty, her soiled clothing tucked inside the bathroom, covered in towels. As the Officer left, she wrenched herself from the bed and frantically washed all traces of blood from her jumpsuit, throwing it in the washing slot.

  She had taken her beauty pill last night, and another in the morning. Miraculously, the bleeding had slowed and finally in the early afternoon it had stopped altogether. She washed each towel until each was scrupulously clean, throwing them unceremoniously through the washing slot. She showered again, ignoring regulation order and staggered out of the shower, newly exhausted. She dried herself with a fresh towel and curled up once more, shivering into a disturbed sleep.

  The wheel was spinning once more, every word standing out in bright clear letters, it clicked along, speeding up as it went. The middle of the wheel was unmoving, Games Operator Farrenlowe’s shiny face laughing uproariously as the wheel spun around his bodiless head.

  Click.

  Expired

  Tick.

  Expired

  Click.

  Expired

  Tick.

  Expired

  Tick.

  Expired

  Ticka. Clicka. Tick.

  – 17 –

  Pinnacle Officer Wilcox sat alone in his study, perusing the daily reports from his Officers. Tonight was the monthly games night hosted in his honor for the Epsilon Games. Pinnacle Officer Wilcox never attended the fights in the Games Ring, he preferred to leave that to his Officers. He smiled to himself, silently congratulating his own ingenuity. To some, the Epsilon Games was a spectacle, an inconsequential diversion, a break in the daily routine to loosen up and enjoy the show. What they did not understand was the design. This was a microcosm of what society should be, what he held as the ideal of how to control, to create order out of chaos.

  The Officers were much like the Resident Citizens, they had simple needs that must be fulfilled. Fundamentally, they needed certainty. There would be no fighting over Vassals and Internees. If an Officer wanted to take an Internee, it mattered not, because the next night another Officer could take her for himself. The primitive territorial demarcation over the opposite sex was an archaic notion to be left in the dark days, the days before the war. The Officers’ natural thirst for blood was slaked by the monthly fights, and by removing the main catalysts for such altercations between Officers, it created a neatness, an order that had not been experienced before now. The system, of course, was not perfect. There was the odd scuffle over a bet, or allocation of drinks, but largely, the structure was upheld in relative decorum. It would take time, of course, he was under no illusions about this fact. The main objective however, was peace. Through the grace and order at FERTS, he would create peace, through a system of basic needs fulfilment, following strict regulation. This was an achievable ideal, a contentment simply accomplished through the joy of collectively pursuing a common goal for the betterment not only for the population at FERTS, but for the benefit of all townships in the wider Forkstream Territories.

  – 18 –

  “All Fighters report to Games Circuit. All fight trainees to secondary games supply. All menial Internees report to designated posts.”

  201 was on water duty for her first Games Circuit attendance. She had scurried along the halls, unsure of where to go after missing both line check and rations for the last day and a half. She had been posted for weapons room cleaning duty so many times, spending her evenings polishing and oiling blades. So many nights spent removing the blood, hair and other debris left over from the bloodshed in the Games Ring. The smell had sickened her, sweet but cloying with a metallic tang that never seemed to leave the airless storehouse. Tonight, however, was the first night she had seen the hall arena itself.

  She worked quickly to fill the water containers, and kept them close to the Fighter's blocks should the Fighters get thirsty. It seemed to be a straightforward duty, much simpler than her weapons room routine. She wondered why there were not more Epsilon Internees clamoring for simple tasks such as this.

  The hall arena was large, much larger than the viewing, instruction and ration rooms. Rows and rows of smooth metal seats surrounded the walls, sloping down in tiers to enclose the Epsilon Games Ring. The circular ring was plain, covered with piles of fragrant wood shavings, surrounded by sharpened wire. The Officers had begun to file in, a sea of dispassionate faces, dressed in dark suits, accepting drinks from her fellow Epsilon Internees. This was the night the Officers received an opportunity to unwind and play. This was a night for Officers to be entertained, to bet and to drink. She spotted 205, her blonde hair hanging loosely below her shoulders. She was well-muscled, arms hinting at a wiry toughness and the coiled sprightliness that lay beneath her unassuming exterior. 201 supposed she was an unlikely candidate for promotion to Omega based on muscle mass alone. Her face was sharp wi
th a pointed nose and keen eyes. She had received an attractiveness rating of 7.2 though 201 could not see what had prompted such a rating. 201 thought that most all the Internees were attractive in some way or another, but she supposed that she was not in charge of ratings, so her opinions were irrelevant.

  Internees at Beta and Omega were encouraged to appraise each other, offering criticism and maintaining a culture of rivalry and competition. 201 had no desire to participate in such activities. It seemed so pointless, to focus all one’s attention on whether 257 had splits at the end of her hair, or whether 243 had dry cheeks. What did it matter? They were to be sold as Vassals or work in Kappa or participate in the games in Epsilon. What was it to her if another Internee had dirt under her nails? 201 did not enjoy being appraised, why should the other Internees?

  She scanned the crowd once more, checking for 232. Since she had missed ration room this evening, 201 had no means of finding out where she could be. 201 smiled to herself. 232 was quiet, but when she talked, she was mildly amusing, and sarcastic, much like 201 herself. 201 missed her freckles, and the way her blue eyes sparkled when she talked. 201 wanted desperately to speak to her companion once more, to apologize, to say something to break this tension between them.

  Games Operator Farrenlowe entered the ring, two Epsilon Internees holding apart the sharpened wire with strong mail gloves, built for withstanding the barbs. His coat was long, black on the outside and burgundy lined, displaying the FERTS games insignia around his neck. The symbol displayed a sword crossing a spear, mounted on a shield. The silver insignia glowed and glittered under the too-warm lights of the Epsilon Games Ring.

  “Welcome, esteemed Officers to the monthly routine Epsilon Battle!” A loud cheer rose up from the crowd, drinks splashing noisily on the shavings below. Rows of Officers elbowed and jostled, handing over their wagers eagerly to the hosting Epsilon pledge-takers.