Capital City Chronicles: The Island

by Goss, S. E.

  “A’ight man,” he cried. “A’ight no more man c’mon!”

  Even from the high corner view of the camera, I could see the grin. Whitten lifted a booted foot and slammed it into the man’s ribs, knocking him against a bed. T slid down until his head rested against the metal lip of the bedframe, his legs spread and his hands raising and dropping in an exhausted effort to ward away this relentless monster.

  “Stupid motherfuckers never learn, amiright?” Whitten said to the guard, calm now, almost conversational. He dropped his hands to his sides and shrugged, shaking his head as if the man on the floor had been an annoying mess left behind by someone else. As he turned to leave the cell the inmate spoke, his voice thin with pain.

  “I was just asking when I could…” he shook, a muscle bound gangster on the verge of sobbing, “when I could call my moms…”

  Whitten turned, slowly.

  “And after he repeatedly told you no phone calls after four,” Whitten spoke as if he were concerned, actually trying to explain the situation to a dullard.

  “Three times I heard him, T,” he held up three fingers, “Three times.”

  Whitten shook his head in disappointment.

  “And now, here you are asking again,” Without warning, without any shift in mood or voice, he raised his boot. This time he brought it down, fast and hard, stomping into T’s face. The back of his head smashed into the bedframe, creating a low, wet crunch. Everything slumped and trembled for several seconds before a thin, red streaked fluid began leaking from his ear. T was still then, his hands laying palms up at his sides, reminding me of the dead police detective downstairs. The other inmates all turned away or looked down, desperate not to be the next to set him off. The guard spun and vomited onto the floor. Whitten collapsed the baton, straightened his shirt and walked away, shaking his head.

  “Motherfuckers never learn,” he said.

  After the brutality of the video, I lingered, not wanting to open the next. So far what I had seen had been horrific, even what some, including myself, would call murder. It was nothing even close enough to end a political career, however. Most of his voters would be charmed by his courtroom antics, and cheer in bloodthirsty righteousness at the murder of an inmate from Capital City. The dead inmate’s life and crimes would be plastered over every news screen and paper in the country, his family berated and investigated, until the original video had been forgotten and only his own sins were what defined him.

  “Well you saw the size of that savage,” voters would say over their lavish dinners, “He had no choice!”

  Hearts and minds had already been won by Whitten; he had become one of the most revered and beloved figures in the nation. It would take a lot more than one dead negro to turn them.

  I opened the next video.

  It was a shaky handheld, probably from a PDA camera. Whitten, much older now, had a girl no older than thirteen or fourteen, bent over a pile of pillows on an overstuffed bed. She didn’t seem to be in distress, and smiled as he grabbed onto her collar and shoved himself into her. She rocked back against him and he pulled the collar until she was almost looking back at him. The collar was the simple welded steel ring of a thralldoll, the lowest rank of sex slave. They were considered disposable, and I feared what I may see next.

  It went on like that for ten minutes, him pounding away, and her seeming to enjoy it as he growled at her,

  “Bet you never had a test drive like this, huh bitch?”

  She moaned and shook her head, “No sir, no way!”

  He looked at the camera then, and I sat back. Gooseflesh broke out on my arms and a cold, clammy feeling spread across my back. A lump grew in my throat.

  Whitten winked.

  He knew the person was filming, and he loved it.

  Leaning forward, he whispered something into the girl’s ear. She began to giggle, a sick reminder that she was nothing more than a child. The high pitched tittering laugh of a girl at a slumber party. The laugh was cut off as Whitten savagely yanked on the collar, jerking her head back. The tube of her esophagus collapsed around the steel ring and her hands shot up to pull it away. A squeaking wheeze escaped her as her face bulged, every minute feature smoothing out over the immediate swelling. Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down into her ears as a shiny, deep crimson color overtook her small face.

  Gritting his teeth he yanked again, hard enough this time that his elbow disappeared behind him as he finished inside her. The girl jerked upward until they were cheek to cheek, her arms swinging like ropes at her side. Whitten pumped into her a couple more times, then kissed her wet cheek and let go.

  She dropped lifeless, her face burying into the mattress. Taking a deep, satisfied breath, he slapped her small butt, which still leaned against him. His hand reached again for the collar, this time ripping off the paper tag which had been attached to the back. He squinted at it and shrugged.

  “I’ll go ahead and pay that,” he said. He pushed her over onto her side and looked at something behind the camera. Waving his hand, he said, “Get rid of that.”

  “You have any spicks?” he said as he climbed down from the bed.

  I hadn’t eaten in awhile, but I could feel my stomach churning. My mouth filled with saliva and the sides of my tongue felt coated in salt. With one hand on the plastic desk I pushed away and leaned forward. I hated vomiting more than almost anything, and I slowed my breath, willing it not to happen. My stomach settled, and I spit a mouthful of warm spit onto the dust covered concrete. Finally, I leaned back in my chair again and stared at the screen for a long time. The video had stopped, frozen on the adolescent girl laying on her side on the decorative, multi-colored bed.

  As sick as it made me, she was nothing more than a thralldoll. Killing someone else’s slave was a serious crime, Destruction of Organic Property they called it. Killing your own was not much more than a misdemeanor and a hefty fine. But at the unfortunate rank of thrall, one’s life was worth even less than that. They weren’t even allowed names, not officially anyway, and killing them wasn’t even addressed in the law books.

  This was indeed a scandal, but not for the death of the girl. How a man as pious as Whitten would be seen inside a DollHouse, using a thralldoll, would be the national discussion for a few weeks. Then, it would be forgotten after a single tearful apology and reassurance that he had found his way back to God, as his ever faithful wife and children stood somber behind him.

  Paying me to find that video and dispose of it, made perfect sense. Why bother going through that headache of a process if it could be avoided altogether? Still, the amount of money, the dead men downstairs, Pan and the DPMI all told me that there was much more to this. It had to be in the text files or photos, and it had to be something big.

  Nevertheless, I was thankful to be finished with the video files, and I began scrolling through the photos. I didn’t see anything special. Photos of Whitten in uniform, photos of Whitten sitting with Kingston, a few blurred images of Whitten meeting with shady men in alleys, crime scene photos, even a few wedding pictures.

  I moved on to the text files.

  The first was one word:

  ORIGAMI

  After that, was a letter to Whitten from someone in the Department of Executive Action and Responsibility. DEAR was founded by President Kingston as a comity of political leaders, military generals, scientists and clergymen. It’s purpose was to filter, edit and polish legislation before it reached Kingston. If he then approved it, it moved back down through DEAR, now bearing his signature, and they went about enacting it. The letter didn’t tell me much more than that a proposal written by Whitten had been approved, and that steps to enact a new “undertaking” would begin within the year.

  After that were nearly two thousand pages, seemingly all written by Whitten. The length of new legislation was typically relative to its impact. Most laws were between 200 and 500 pages. This was something huge in more ways than just page length.

  Taking a deep breath,
I opened the first file:

  It has been commonly known that our seat of economic power, Capital City, has over the years become an unfortunate oasis for the ungodly; a modern Sodom and Gomorrah. For decades this has been at best ignored, and at worst, fostered by our leaders. The reasons for this are many, and are not my focus here.

  The issue we are faced with today, is one beyond that of mere sin. Although I believe that for our Country to move forward this Haven of Sin must be cleansed, a more dire and immediate threat is in our midst. Six months ago, our President was the sole survivor of an unfortunate event onboard one of our interstellar laboratories. 88 lives, all of them Citizens and Employees, were lost. Among the lives lost were Chief ParaMilitary Research Engineer Dr. Ariadne Vera, and GlobeCorps International CEO Leonard Glass. The official public statement was that a fire in the processor room caused a chain reaction that produced a series of explosions. We know this to be false.

  President Kingston testified that his own Secret Service officer, a Mr. Stewart Hoyt, had assassinated Glass, and attempted the same against the President. Mr. President also stated that Hoyt was trying to bring something back to Earth with him. This being a military research facility, I find it obvious that Hoyt was attempting to bring back GCI weapons technology. Why and for whom?

  There have been rumors for years of rebels among us. It is now clear that these are not mere rumors, and that these traitors have managed to infiltrate the highest echelons of both Government and Company.

  We must now ask, where is the one place that insurgents can hide? Where is the one place that harbors and awards secrecy and free thought? Where is the one place in our country that people are not held accountable for their deviancy?

  Capital City.

  What I propose, is a Revival.

  A Revival not only of spiritual morality, but of Governmental control and accountability. This Revival will solve many of the domestic problems we face today, in a short time. In the following pages, I have outlined the steps to be taken to achieve this Revival, and to carry both our Country and our Company, into the future.

  I sat back staring at the screen. What was Whitten proposing? A massive propaganda campaign? An invasion?

  The next seven files were each only a few pages. They were labeled:

  REVIVALPHASE1: Terrain.

  REVIVALPHASE2: Media/Hearts & Minds

  REVIVALPHASE3: Registration/Classification

  REVIVALPHASE4: Relocation

  REVIVALPHASE5: Re-Education

  REVIVALPHASE6: Extermination

  REVIVALPHASE7: Re-Integration.

  A numb feeling crept through my mind as I read. Perhaps I simply did not know how to react, how to even process what I was seeing. One file in particular stood out to me, and I opened it before any of the others:

  PHASE 6

  EXTERMINATION

  In phase 6, I have covered in detail the steps to be taken in the unfortunate, yet inevitable cases of Undesirables who do not show improvement within the six week Re-Education Program (As covered in Phase 5: Re-Education). In cases of Private Citizen Undesirables, a humane euthanasia procedure will be necessary. I have outlined many options for the means in which this can be carried out. However, ultimately it should be left to the ParaMilitary Officer in Charge, the GCI Re-Education Community Oversight Manager, or whichever authority should be on sight, to decide the proper means.

  In the cases of well known Undesirables, and known or unknown rebels, I recommend a public Capital Punishment Hearing, followed by a televised execution (as detailed in Phase 2: Media, section 6.2: Public Perspectives on Punitive Affairs).

  My pulse pounding through my neck, I backed out and opened the file I suspected would tell me who these “Undesirables” would be:

  PHASE 3

  CLASSIFICATION

  REGISTRATION

  Phase 3 lists and classifies the enemy into clear groups. This is the largest and most exhaustive of the Phases, including appearance, customs, psychology, activities and sins. Listed are the most prevalent and obvious Undesirables in Capital City:

  ● Heretics/Non-believers. (Note that slaves who practise shamanism or paganism are not to be counted among Undesirables. Instead their owners will be given opportunity to correct and reverse this unfortunate trend among Organic Property).

  ● Sexual Deviants. (Homosexuals, Adulterers, Fetishists and Citizen Prostitutes and their Pimps).

  ● Political Dissidents (Communists, Libertarians, Anarchists, Jihadists and any other espousers of Non-State Philosophies).

  ● Rebels/Insurgents

  Understand that this list is far from complete or universal. A committee will be formed to add to, and expound upon this list as needed.

  *A note on NerveTown and the Underground:

  A special section, Digital Threats, has been dedicated to the eradication of the illegal and immoral digital terrorist group known as the Underground. For far too long, GCI and the Government has allowed these terrorists and criminals to operate completely unchecked. The Underground is our most immediate threat, and must be shut down before the Revival can even begin.

  Luckily, nearly 70% of the Underground is run by a few hundred abominations called “the Nervous,” out of a physical neighborhood inside Capital City. It is imperative that NerveTown, as this neighborhood is known, be razed and their servers shut down, as soon as possible.

  There it was.

  The reason behind the pay. The DPMI. Pandora. The dead men downstairs. Whitten was the mastermind, the architect behind something so monumental, so world changing, that I could only sit and stare with my mouth hanging open. The sheer magnitude of the words in front of me induced an endless loop of horrifying images through my mind.

  I saw NerveTown in flames, the Mobile Nervous lying in the street with their cords and wires and chips all ripped out of their skulls, while the Wired baked alive inside their brick oven server rooms.

  I saw young protesters littering the streets, shot and bleeding and crying.

  I saw fighting in the streets. Rebels dressed in rags like the ones downstairs, fighting a losing battle against unstoppable ParaMilitary forces.

  I saw public executions… beheadings… firing squads…

  As I re-read the list of “undesirables,” a nauseous, violated feeling rose from the images. I would never see these things take place. I wouldn’t live that long.

  I was an undesirable.

  Pan and I both. And we were working for them, being paid massive amounts to sell out those unfortunate enough to not be employed by GCI. Would we be taken to camps, separated and tortured into swearing our conversions? Or would we be shot outright for our foreknowledge of this “Revival?”

  No.

  Not Pandora Demour. Not only could she claim no foreknowledge, she was entirely too talented, too useful to them. I was much more disposable. If simply being one of Whitten’s undesirables wasn’t enough to damn me, looking at the files was. By opening the text files I had guaranteed my own execution.

  Ripping the cord from the computer, I had a sudden, overwhelming urge to destroy something. I lifted the computer from the desk, yanking at it until the cord pulled free from the wall, tearing plaster away in chunks and ribbons and ran toward the outside door. The computer slammed into the door, swinging it open. Glass rained down onto my feet and sifted down through the metal grating of the balcony. My voice broke as a strained, high pitched scream clawed its way out of my throat. A sharp, lingering pain raced through my left leg as my hip banged into the handrail and I almost toppled over. Instead, I used the momentum to lift my arms over my head and send the machine out over the water. Bent over the rail, blinking to clear the tears from my vision, I watched the computer tumble through the air, silhouetted by the horizon of lights that was downtown Capital City. After a few seconds that seemed to be minutes it landed with a deep sploosh, its cord snaking behind it until it too had disappeared under the dancing reflection of the city.

  Destroying a computer h
ad served no real purpose other than an attempt to purge the helpless, violated disgust that overwhelmed me. Bent over the rail, breathing in ragged gasps, I stared across the river at Capital City. Whitten was in that giant cluster of lights, noise and sin, waiting for the night to pass into what would surely be one of the best days of his life. He would probably even be celebrating soon by raping and murdering a child. And here I was, alone and doomed, waiting for an answer.

  Bet you never had a test drive like this, huh bitch…

  My mind echoed his voice, insistent that I listen.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head, trying to force the thoughts out. Without permission my mind showed me the girl’s face, smiling and giggling... the man in the jail cell lying against a bedframe… the photo of Whitten dining with Kingston and Glass…

  Something touched my back, and I screamed again, this time a startled yelp. I threw my hands back and felt the door behind me. I had stumbled back against it, not noticing I had even began moving. My legs gave up hope at the same moment I did and I slid down the door. I landed with a grunt, one leg hanging off the stairs, the other curled beneath me. I leaned over onto my forearm, deciding to lay down, to give in to the hopelessness and despair. A soft, crunching pop caught my attention just as the jabbing pain shot into my forearm. The slivers and chunks of glass that were large enough to not fit through the grating littered the balcony. Now one of them hung swinging from the skin on my forearm. I plucked it off and stared at it for a long time, watching a single drop of blood crawl down its length. It was a tiny pinprick, an insignificant injury that I could easily ignore. I regularly suffered worse from just crawling through fences every other night. But it was enough to jolt me out of the slow panic of knowing one’s fate.