FERTS

by Grace Hudson

  – 30 –

  That night 201 was restless, images of Morton and his flushed, sweaty face swam before her eyes. Without her consent, more images came, scattering, flickering, rising and falling. First it was a flash here or there of another room, another uniform pressed against her small frame. The pictures in her mind rose up, beginning slowly, gaining momentum until everything was moving forward in rapid motion. Before long the memories flooded her mind, overtaking her, breaking open the walls she had so carefully built around the room that she did not dare enter, the room from which she had hidden the key and obscured the lock for all time.

  His insignia read Officer Jorg. The 42Y next to his identification seared into her eyes, opening gateways to a time, a world she swore she would never revisit.

  “Shh. Don’t you dare make a sound. Someone will hear and then you will be punished.”

  He leaned closer, his thinning blonde hair tickling her throat.

  “And you know what the punishment will be, don’t you, little one?”

  She squirmed, attempting to break free of his hold.

  “They will send you to Zeta Circuit. That is where the ones like you will go if you do not keep quiet.” His fingers slid underneath her uniform, searching, making her squirm in discomfort.

  “You are far too tense, this won’t do. I guess will have to use your mouth instead. Open up for me now, if you don’t I will make you will wish you had.” She shook her head, mouth clamped shut. He gripped her jaw, squeezing hard. His eyes, blank and lifeless fixed upon hers. “Do not make me say it again.”

  She complied, trying to keep her eyes trained on anything other than what he was doing. She gagged, her airway choked, tears escaping the corners of her eyes. She steadied her gaze on the window, the thin sliver of light coming through, the sounds of the forest outside. She closed her eyes and imagined herself somewhere else, somewhere green and wooded, somewhere that was not surrounded by polished metal and marble that clacked under her feet. Her mind seemed to split in two, right at that moment. She was running, running not from something but towards something, she did not know what that something would be, but she knew it was better, better than this, better than the choking feeling in her throat, the obscene moans coming from above her head.

  He threw her back then, down to the floor, zipping up his uniform pants as he left. She sat on the floor, head bowed, tears running down her cheeks and diverting into her ears, filling them, making them uncomfortably warm. She gasped for breath, blinking down at her insignia, the 12Y glowing smugly back at her.

  201 did not make it to the bathroom this time. She heaved, crouched over on one knee, spilling mostly water and what looked like blood onto the polished floor. She was motionless, watching the pool of dark liquid soak over the striations, edging further and further from her body as she did nothing to soak up the flow.

  I was just a little one! So small, how could I not remember?

  I thought it happened to someone else. A story I had heard, just a nightmare, a horrible dream I had one night.

  How could I not remember?

  She heaved again, making no effort this time to protect her robe. The cold from the stone floor seeped into her body but yet she stayed, hunched over, body shuddering as she gasped for air. She sank further into the stone, curling in on herself. A sound was coming from somewhere, a low whine, breaking into a howl, and tapering off into whispering sobs. It was only when she paused to swallow a breath that she realized that the sound was coming from deep within her. The tears warmed her face, rushing down in rivulets, streaking her neck, seeping in to the hollow of her collarbone. The breeze from the window cooled the mess on her robe, clinging cruelly to her chilled skin, and still she stayed. The bed beckoned to her, snug and crisp, and yet she stayed.

  – 31 –

  The next morning hit 201 with a wave of nausea. She peeled herself off the stone floor, cold and sticky, barely making it to the bathroom before throwing up what little contents her stomach had left. Leaning on the bowl, face sticky with tears, she wheezed repeatedly, trying to catch her breath. A faint sound hummed from the bedroom, the printer spitting out the results from yesterdays ‘test’. She held back another urge to throw up, bracing herself on the bowl and lifting herself to a standing position. She looked straight at the mirror, chin jutted out in defiance. She looked no different, save for her reddened eyes and tear streaked face. Perhaps she should look different, but then again it had not happened the first time, why would it happen now? She felt sure the others would know, just by looking at her, what Morton had done.

  She pooled towels on the floor, mopping up the dried liquid, peeled the crusted robe from her body and threw the whole filthy pile into the washing slot. She showered for longer than usual this time, making sure to clean herself thoroughly and methodically, attempting to scrub away any reminders of Morton from her body. It didn’t work, but she dressed and groomed according to regulation and sat back against the bed, ripping the results from the slot.

  Promotion to Omega successful. Transfer completion underway.

  201 could not smile.

  – 32 –

  Wilcox stretched lazily from his plush, velvet draped bed. On his left side was a Vassal, Beth 23 something. He couldn’t remember and he supposed it didn’t really matter. What mattered was she was an 18Y, blonde and had long, lean legs and wide blue eyes. He looked over at her face, scrunched up in sleep. She stirred, snuffling and scratching at her eye. When she focused her gaze, she found herself staring up into his impassive face. Her face was unsure, searching, slowly forming into a practised, seductive pout. What she did not understand was that Wilcox was done with her.

  “Out.” Confusion crossed her features before settling into a dutiful smile, head bowed.

  “Are you deaf? I said out.” He kicked at her shin, pushing her to the edge of the bed. She scurried to the floor next to the bed, stopping only to pick up her jumpsuit on the way out the door.

  Wilcox laid back, frowning. If only there was a way to make the Beths more dutiful, more obedient. He would look into that, perhaps study the current batch, find another way to shape their nature, make them more receptive. There was always something to improve, always something to adjust. The Beths had been troublesome in the past, but over time, they had become something closer to the ideal. He would know the time when he had achieved greatness, but that moment had not arrived just yet. Now was a time for planning, for development, and for further research. The Resident Citizens had become more receptive to his methods in recent years, but again, this had taken more time than expected. Since the dark times, there had been years of flux and chaos, society had become warlike, tribal. There was no order, no hierarchy, no understanding of status or proper place.

  The wars had been gradual, building up in many parts of the land until war became all encompassing. Technology had become masterful for these crude purposes, and weapons had become progressively more effective, wiping out thousands instead of hundreds in mere seconds. The technology was not limited to one side, however, and vast numbers were decimated simultaneously. As troop numbers had dwindled, slain in combat or lost to defection, the forces gradually began to lose their hold on conquered territories. The remaining troops, weary of battle, began to overthrow the elected governments until the lands were plunged into lawlessness. Resources dwindled and the remaining inhabitants fled to the relative safety of the more isolated territories.

  Before long, the society Wilcox had previously known had all but shut down. The relative stability of government, rule of law, medical and emergency services, each dissolved shortly after the collapse of government. Some valiantly attempted to continue their assistance to the community, only to be ransacked by marauders. Many fled to save their own lives. A few had elected to stay, only to be slain for their efforts. The order of society had been flayed open. Soon, the desire to take and destroy were unfettered, the vigilantes fighting amongst each other for the few meagre resources left untouched.


  After a time, the territories began to regroup. The hordes, never content to stay in one place, had departed in search of fresh conquests. Communities were fractured, broken. Many attempted to build, to gather some kind of order into the townships, but most were aimless, unsure of where to begin.

  Wilcox had been the only one who had seen the real cause of society’s ills. Wilcox could see to the heart of matters, that is what people had come to expect of him. He was undisputed and unchallenged as the wisest in the township of Evergreen. In times of chaos, the people from surrounding townships had come to him repeatedly with their various problems, their petty disputes, their conflicts. Men fought over women, custody of children, the acquisition of property and livelihood, and generally complained about the complications of life in the townships. All this time, Wilcox had seen, had heard, and understood. Wilcox possessed that which the others did not. A pure, clear ideal, the vital spark to begin again, reborn in a new image. The cause of all these disputes, all these clashes, the very dissonance at the heart of the people of Evergreen, of social structure, of society as a whole, was simple, so simple, in fact, that it was staring them right in the face the whole time.

  Women.

  – 33 –

  Wilcox had been a young man then, a scientist during the old times, he had run the most prestigious of facilities in medical testing and genetic study. Although he had thought of himself as a visionary in progressing in the field of medical testing and analysis, the truth was that he was essentially a glorified prison guard. He ran a number of facilities for a private company, contracted by the military in times of war. The complex housed the usual, prisoners of war, enemies of the government, refugees without proper identification and the like. He spent his days testing, probing, studying. He wanted to know the inner workings of the human body, the very mechanisms from which life is created. He performed dissections, hundreds of them. Towards the end, when society had begun to collapse, he knew he did not have much time. He began dissections on random subjects, studying those with certain characteristics, discarding the ones that did not meet his standards. He would find a way to engineer the human form, to shape it, to hone and refine. In the end the prisoners were liquidated on Wilcox’s order, discarded in pits deep in the forest. The only safe areas that remained were isolated farmlands and sleepy valleys, far from the major cities and industrial regions. Wilcox fled, along with his fellow scientists and settled in a remote township far from the conflicts.

  Life went on, though it was unrecognizable from Wilcox’s perspective. There was too much fighting, quarrelling, and a general disorder about the place that Wilcox found distasteful. The townspeople came to him for advice, as he was clearly well educated and knowledgeable about the ordered way in which to run a trouble-free society. During the wars, many of the brightest and most celebrated members of society were lost in the ensuing battles. Wilcox was unique in this way. Not only had he survived, but he had an opportunity in his new township, a new beginning in which to start his work.

  The planning was the most frustrating part. He knew that for what he had planned, no matter how deficient the inhabitants were in terms of education, it was clear that something dramatic needed to happen. Fear, the great motivator, would this time become his trusted companion. The townspeople were weary, tired of wars, tired of quarrels. Wilcox would show them a new way, a safer way, a more ordered way for society to progress.

  He set about in contacting some of his old colleagues from his days in the military detention industry. Many of the former guards and soldiers had become mercenaries after the war, content to move from township to township, taking what they needed, food, supplies and women. Wilcox decided on a deal based on mutual understanding of needs. The mercenaries would play their part, and for their reward they would be allowed their choice of women in the town, as many resources as they could carry, and plentiful food and drink. In return, Wilcox would ask for nothing, save for their perpetual silence. It seemed an odd exchange at the time, though the mercenaries weren’t overly concerned with asking questions. They would gain what they needed, and they would be on their way.

  – 34 –

  The township of Evergreen awakened as normal that morning, food was becoming more plentiful as the townspeople went about planting and harvesting crops, both in their own land, and in communal growing spaces. Metalwork had begun in earnest, the mass-produced technology of times before had faded, requiring a relearning of making things by hand. There were some animals, though they had been sparse at first. A careful breeding program had ensured that the township was provided with milk and later, hand made cheeses and cream. Baking was done by hand, using fire and clay ovens. Flour was hand ground by stones and clothing was made using bone needle and twine, or wool when it became available. Cider was brewed from apples, as grains were as yet in short supply. Children played in the townships, making games out of sticks, leaves and pebbles. One of these children, Gerda, was the first to see them.

  She was playing near a brook at the far end of the town, her leaf floating down the stream as she ran, hair bouncing, poking her stick out every now and then to push the leaf when it got caught in the tightly gathered twigs that lined the edge. She hummed a tune, something that she had not heard before, just a spontaneous, aimless melody, her voice rising and falling with the rushing of the water.

  Gerda heard the hoofbeats long before she saw them. Raising her hand to the sky, she shielded her face from the sun, squinting towards the mountains that surrounded the township of Evergreen. Dust and drift seeds glowed in the light, rising up from the ground and gently wafting past the shade of her arm. Then she saw them. Three shapes, rounded dark shapes in the distance, gradually becoming more formed as they emerged from the haze. But it was not three but five, no, ten, so many, so many of them, the hoofbeats drowning out the running of the water, her stick dropped to the ground, leaf forgotten, she screamed.

  – 35 –

  The people of Evergreen huddled in the town’s main hall, shivering in the cold as the rain fell steadily outside. A fire was built in the oversized hearth, flames burning bright, as yet too new to be producing much heat. The townspeople was mostly comprised of men, the majority of the women taken by the men who had ridden through town, stealing and destroying everything they touched.

  “Friends, this will not do. This cannot go on.”

  Nobody had observed Wilcox’s ascent to the lectern, an old wooden teacher’s stand salvaged from an abandoned school nearby.

  “You see what they have done to us, what we have become?” He stared resolutely into the crowd, meeting each eye in turn. “We are afraid, always afraid of what is to come. This is no way for our township to progress forward. The men who… came here today.” He looked around sympathetically, a sombre grimace crossing his features. “They will continue to come until there is nothing left for us to rebuild. And do you know why they will always return, citizens?” The gathering was silent, awaiting his next words with wide eyes. “Women. They come for the women and they will continue to come, destroying all we have built, everything we own!” He paused for breath, lowering his voice. “So, friends, citizens.” He smiled an encouraging smile, eyes dancing with something that could have been tears, or perhaps joy. “We must remove the enticement.” He slapped the lectern in time with his words. “Take away the prize and these mercenaries will have no reason to come to Evergreen. The remaining men will be free to defend the township, and the women will be safe from the hands of these interlopers!” A light applause smattered through the hall, most too shocked from the days events to respond.

  “Think! This could be the start, a new beginning and a new way of living. There will be no more confusion, no more conflict, we can grow the township, make something with what we have been given!” The group clapped, more enthusiastically this time. “It may not seem so, given the events of today, but this could be the most important day in the history of this township! Today was the day we began to protect what is ri
ghtfully ours!” A hesitant clapping rang out.

  “The women of Evergreen will be safe!” More applause.

  “Our beloved Evergreen will be protected. There will be no more trouble from the interlopers!” The applause grew, filling the hall and roaring in his ears. “The time for action is upon us!”

  “This is the day the true township of Evergreen begins. To set an example, a precedent from there was none. We will rebuild in a new image. A model of stability! Of order! A society of which we can be proud to call our own. We will build a new beginning!” A great cheer erupted, echoing though the halls, rising with Wilcox’s hands as they raised to the roof of the hall, stretching up towards the sky.

  – 36 –

  Three weeks later, before dawn, Wilcox had gathered together an additional group of mercenaries in the small south western township of Riversberg. In the still darkness they stole through the town, removing the few women left behind in the raid. They did not bother to announce their presence, just entered each room, placing a warning hand over each woman’s mouth, loading each of them into the transport wagon. They were stealthy, and many of the townspeople remained asleep during the visitations. As they moved from house to house, many were still unaware that anything was amiss. However one girl, unable to sleep, had witnessed the raids on the houses, her tunic barely covering to her knees since she had grown so much this past year. She was ten, her parents had been lost in the war and she had stayed in the care of Wesley, an ex-soldier and defector who wanted nothing more to do with further conflicts. The girl was no fool, and seeing the mercenaries taking the women and girls from their homes, she rushed to her room, gathering up as many clothes as she could find to fill her satchel. She made sure to pack her knife, the blankets from her bed and the warmest clothes she could find. She grabbed her kit that Wes had given her for her tenth birthday, containing flint, an army issue pocket knife, a miniature first aid kit, a tiny compass and a ball of twine. She loaded the bag with a small pot, a fork, spoon, and a bag of potatoes from the kitchen before running breathlessly into Wesley’s room.