It took us years to realize the attacks had merely been diversions. While we tried to stop their attacks, they compromised the embryonic modification computers. Nomods had taken over the entire mod process without our knowledge. It took us years to realize what they had done. Even then, we only realized it as those nomod children failed to follow what should have been their predetermined genetic destiny. I should be appalled, but I am not.
You see, they’re quite inquisitive, these nomod tykes. Quite inquisitive, indeed.
About Henry Vogel
A former comic book writer and currently performing storyteller, Henry Vogel is the author of seven science fiction adventure novels with more on the way.
henryvogelwrites.com
Sara
Chris Donohue
316-F glanced at the mail slots as she returned to the Medical monitoring station. Her mailslot, tagged Delta-3S316a19F-Medic, held four information sticks. The second of the four recyclable personal information drives was rounded on one of its plastic corners. Of course, each had the State Approved LED lit meaning the information had been scanned and found not harmful to the State.
Her pulse quickened. The carefully “damaged” stick meant she had an appointment after her shift. An appointment forbidden by Law and Decency, at least that is what a People’s Prosecutor would say.
316-F and her fellow Deltas sat at their terminals, entering end-of-shift reports on patient status when the floor supervisor, 732-F, a Gamma, checked in. 732-F leaned casually against the mailslot array, asking questions about how each of Delta’s assigned charges had fared. Transferring a tenth-week fetus to a synthetic womb wasn’t rocket science. Every F’s duty to the Revolution required her to provide two carefully chosen and artificially inseminated new workers for the State. 732-F didn’t seem interested in 316-F’s reports, just burning time until the end of their shift.
316-F scarcely noticed the supervisor. Other than the tiny Gamma tattoo between her eyebrows, she looked no different from the Deltas like 316-F. Well, obviously a little different than Delta 7M821i21-M, but in their knee-length work tunics and loose pants, even those differences were unremarkable.
Her entries finished, 316-F casually grabbed her information sticks. She pressed the Read button on the first stick, activating a tiny holographic display of the Leader reminding her to buy War Bonds. She twisted the stick to delete the message and tossed the stick into the reuse hopper.
She casually pressed the Read button on the corner-damaged stick. Her supervisor’s bored expression did not change as the stick displayed an advertisement for historical memorabilia available at an Eta-district shop. Buried in the dancing hologram were the location, time and theme for her appointment. 316-F memorized the hidden information and twisted the stick.
It gave her a thrill to download her appointment information in front of an oblivious Gamma. She wondered if she could carry it off as well in front of an equally bored Beta or even an Alpha.
There was little risk of an Alpha coming to this center.
316-F paid no attention as she played the final two sticks, thinking about the appointment she had received. Each new appointment was in a different building, usually a floor in some outdated worker housing in low-end Eta or upper-end Theta sections of the city.
She would have two hours to return to her quarters, prepare and get to the address. The theme of this appointment was Late Twentieth and her outfit would be provided.
She liked those themes, flashy and decadent. She earned few credits for the work, but it was so . . . different from the rest of her life. Until she started this illegal work, she hadn’t realized how bland her daily life was.
316-F grabbed her satchel of personal items and was the first Delta to the stairwell after the replacement shift arrived.
821-M followed immediately behind her, saying, “They’re having a rally near Emperor Hugo the Second Park later tonight. That’s pretty close to your building, 316. Were you planning on, like, attending, or anything? Maybe you’d like some company?”
316-F slowed, glancing at her co-worker. Deltas were allowed to socialize with each other, but it was quite uncommon for a Delta-F to mingle with Delta-M’s. It only led to unhappiness for all involved. Nothing coming from a relationship between those Deltas would be State sanctioned.
“No, I’ve been to my three war rallies this month,” she increased her pace. “I have other plans for tonight.”
She wondered, briefly, if he would have asked had he known how she was about to spend her evening. Perhaps. But most Deltas would have to save their credits for a year or more to afford her company.
316-F scarcely noticed her trip home. Uniform, featureless buildings drifted past as she stood on the Righteous Labor Blue Line slide-walk into Delta housing. State Security hover-drones buzzed through the air, keeping all of the Citizens secure from enemy agents and criminals.
Well, other criminals, 316-F thought as a drone flew past, oblivious to her plans.
“Late Twentieth,” she whispered. Bright lights flashed in her mind, pulsing to the beat of awkwardly, but enthusiastically, synthesized music. She ignored the dull, patriotic music squeaking from the slide-walk speakers as her mind played back the deliciously sensuous lyrics she’d soon dance to at the appointment. The rough, but thin fabric of her tunic reminded her, by the contrast, of the decadently thick and soft clothes awaiting her.
None of the Deltas surrounding her on the slide-walk could hear the music pounding or see the lights flashing in 316-F’s head. For her part, she could barely distinguish the M’s around her from the F’s. Their Delta grade tunics and depilated heads let them blend in as part of her equally uniform, equally boring life. But, the Leader and the Party promised all citizens would be equal. At least, all Deltas equal to other Deltas, Betas equal to Betas and Alphas equal above the rest.
The promise of her illicit work allowed her to choke back a scream of sheer frustration.
Inside her module at Delta Housing 39-West, she sprang to life. She tossed her satchel and stepped into her cleanser. She used a week’s worth of cranial-depilatory cream to slough away hair from her arms, underarms and legs. She left the millimeters of light brown stubble on her head, feeling a perverse tingle.
As she dried off, her wall computer recited the messages she had received while at work.
“Buy War Bonds,” the Leader’s voice urged in his smooth and reassuring Alpha-M tones.
“Next,” 316-F snapped, enjoying this tiny act of sedition by cutting the Leader’s message short.
“Come, Citizen,” a trained Truth Teller’s voice said with an incongruous Eta-worker’s accent, “and attend the Sharing Rally at the Saint Mao Park tonight at the end of C-shift. Gammas, Betas and even Alphas will be here to show solidarity with all workers and to contribute to a memorial for the Thetas killed in the bridge collapse caused by enemy sabotage.”
“Excellent,” 316-F whispered. Saint Mao Park was in the Eta District and quite near her appointment. Nobody would question a Delta being in the neighborhood. Since Alphas were actually going to attend the Rally, the area would be swept clear of petty criminals well in advance. If anyone asked, she was on her way to the Sharing Rally.
As she stepped onto the slide-walk headed to the Eta District, 821-M joined her. “I thought you were staying in tonight,” he said.
316-F blushed and stammered, “No, I said I had plans tonight. I’m meeting a friend at the Sharing Rally.” Her head spun, but she’d given a reasonable answer. You never knew who might be a Loyalty Agent.
Annoyed that this Delta might ruin her appointment, 316-F decided to go on the offensive. “I thought you said you were going to the War Rally. If you are, you’re on the wrong slide.”
“No. I’m on the right slide,” he answered. It wasn’t his words, but his tone catching her attention. She looked at Delta-7M821i21-M-Medic for the first time, really looked at him.
Like most other Deltas, the Asian in his racial mix was dominant
. He stood only 3cm taller than her, but she was an even Asian and European mix.
Then she noticed his hair. He had depilated his cranial hair and the hair from his cheeks and neck, but he had left some stubble on his chin and around his mouth. It was a tiny clue, but she knew, 821-M was headed to the same appointment.
He glanced around. Few Deltas took the slide to the Eta District. There seemed to be no rush of Gammas or Betas on their way to a Theta Sharing Rally either. Obviously, Alphas wouldn’t take the slide-walk. 316-F and 821-M had over twenty square meters of slide-walk to themselves.
“I thought you were one,” 821-M said softly, but didn’t whisper, “an Actress.”
Despite her best efforts, 316-F felt the blood rush to her face again. No Citizen would use a gender-based title like Actress. A Citizen would say the gender-neutral title of Player, or if the Player read Party-approved news, Truth-Teller.
“We shouldn’t be seen talking,” 316-F hissed. “Step off at the next intersection and take a parallel street the rest of the way. Don’t you know the procedure?”
“Yeah, no prob, I catch yer drift,” he answered softly but lifted an eyebrow and then gave a smile turning into a leer.
316-F fought a giggle at his dangerously early drop into mid-twentieth ‘persona’. She stared ahead as 821-M stepped to the edge of the slide-walk and out of her line of sight.
When she reached the appointment building, it was even more rundown than she expected. Little of its pink plaster facade remained. Several ankle-deep, fleshy-looking piles of debris dotted the cracked pavement near the Eta-class commerce building entrance.
She pushed through the manual entrance door and was pleasantly surprised to find two of the five elevators working. She ignored the other workers waiting in the lobby and rode to the 18th floor in silence.
A trio of unsavory Outcasts glowered from the barely-lit hallway as the elevator doors opened on the 18th floor.
A normal Citizen would ride the elevator to the top and back down to street level again rather than face Outcasts in a dark passage. Their greasy hair sprouted long enough to bend to the pull of gravity, their tunics were cut tightly enough to display their figures, one F and two menacingly bulky M’s. 316-F recognized two of them as guards from previous appointments.
She gave a small groan of dread before leaving the elevator, her first effort as an Actress tonight.
“Room 1845,” the tallest “Outcast” said after the elevator doors shut. He gave her a smile before asking, “Are you going for blonde or redhead tonight, Sara?”
“Gentlemen prefer blondes,” 316-F answered with a saucy grin of her own. She put a roll into her hips as she headed down the hall. She ignored the illegally obtained pulse-pistol bulging under the “Outcast’s” tunic. He was there to keep them safe.
Two other Actresses were in 1845 when 316-F, Sara, arrived. A sleeveless dress with a bright flower pattern hung near the door. Below the dress a wig of long, straight blonde hair perched on a mannequin head. Blonde being Sara’s specialty. She would put the wig on last.
Sara recognized Eta-2N616a40-F-Clerk, Nana, from previous engagements. Some of her popularity might be due to her pure African blood, but more came from her “ghetto sassy” persona.
The other Actress was new to Sara. Fully Asian or nearly so, the makeup over her Beta tattoo had rubbed away. Sara had known many Betas as customers at these appointments, but never one as an Actress.
Sara smiled at the new F as both sat before the bathroom mirror and began applying their makeup. Sara chose makeup shades to work with her pale blonde wig, her mental image was a late-twentieth Actress named Goldie.
“Here, try this,” Sara said as the new F nearly poked her eye with an eyeliner.
“Thank you, I’m not very good at this,” the new F stammered as she repeated Sara’s eyeliner stroke on her left eyelid. “I’m, um, D-Delta-6t903, um.”
“You need a better lie,” Sara interrupted. “No one here needs to know your real identity, choose a name you like and we’ll all use that. Most of us pick one based on our identity code, I’m Sara. But, don’t try and tell me you’re a Delta when I can see your tattoo and your accent is pure Beta schooling.”
“Sorry,” the new F squeaked. “There are so many details to learn. It looked so easy in those flat, grainy videos. The F’s just floated and danced and blinked their made-up eyes at the M’s. This is so hard.”
Sara took her hand, “It’s just something to learn. But, not something you’ll find in any State school. You’ve seen videos and probably more, and better ones than I ever had access to. Pick an Actress you really liked and pretend you are her. If you look anything like her, it will be easier. But, what the customers are here for is your persona, the girl you’re pretending to be for a few hours.”
“Sara’s right, honey,” Nana added. “Most days I’m just an Eta clerk, nobody knows or cares if I’m alive. But, here I’m a sassy soul sista. I can strut and dance and tease all the boys. I had Alphas beggin’ me to tell them my ident so they could transfer me to their office or household as a personal assistant. The credits are nice, but it’s even better bein’ someone, even for jus’ a bit.”
“Think,” Sara said. “Which Actress did you love the most?”
“I don’t know. There were so many and they all looked so different.”
“You don’t have to make yourself into any one of them,” Nana said, “take the attitude that really talked to you and make that part yours and be your own video.”
Sara nodded before saying, “What you need now is to choose your Actress name, maybe the rest will follow. What are your identity code letters? That’s where most of us start.”
“I’m coded M and A,” the new F answered.
“May,” Sara and Nana said simultaneous.
“With your pure Asian look, you could go by M-A-Y or M-E-I depending on the era we’re doing in the appointment. A silky Asian dress and long, straight black wig . . .”
“Or pageboy haircut,” Nana added, “and you’ll do just fine for the first couple of appointments.”
“If you’re like every other Actress I’ve known, you’ll spend everything you earn tonight on black market videos that will fan that flame inside of you. You’ll find the Actress you want to be.”
“Yeah,” Nana added. “Don’t matter if the real girl inside a’ you is a geisha, a sista or some red-haired bar girl. It’s that girl these appointments let you be and it’s her that’ll make the customers throw credits at you and risk arrest to be with.”
“May. May. I’m May, how’re you today, big boy?” May whispered as she worked on her makeup.
Sara finished her own makeup, ending with pink lipstick. Then came her favorite part. She pulled the blonde wig over her stubbled head, tossed back the long golden locks and looked into the mirror at a beautiful stranger. A Goddess haloed in gold.
Three knocks on the door were followed by one of the “Outcasts” saying, “Two minutes, girls. They’re starting with Procol Harum’s ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ and most of the customers in the ballroom are dressed for a Prom.”
Sara and Nana shared a grin. Well over half of their appointments were Proms or Cotillions.
Men in formal suits, with precisely sculpted wigs and artful traces of facial hair, girls in their prettiest dresses. The men would pull out chairs for the ladies, bring them punch, ask them for the honor of a dance. The girls would giggle and flutter fans and then glide across the dance floor.
Elitist. Sexist. Classist. Exploitive. Condemned.
State Security would sentence the Thetas and Etas to one of the People’s War Fronts; Deltas and Gammas to hazardous chemical or nuclear work if they were caught. Even the Betas and Alphas making up most of the customers would have their careers damaged by participating in such non-egalitarian activities. The risk thrilled her.
Sara looked through the box of makeup and found a small bottle of perfume. She put on a little, and then showed a wide-eyed May where to d
ab the fragrant oil before handing the bottle to Nana.
Picking up a small, gold-sequined purse, Nana said, “Okay Ladies, it’s showtime.”
The three swept down the hall, around discarded Eta-grade furniture and reeking piles of trash. Scruffy “outcast” guards, M’s and F’s both, grinned as the girls passed by in their dresses and wigs. May staggered less as she gained experience walking in her 3-inch heeled shoes.
Floor 18’s abandoned Commercial Court had been wrecked out and replaced by a Ballroom from a 1980’s Prom movie. Sara noticed details from Sixteen Candles and Better Off Dead, but knew dozens of other movies she’s never seen were also used in the decorations. The Alphas who arranged safe locations for the appointments would demand all kinds of specific touches, she and her friends were simply part of some Alpha’s fantasy.
Sara didn’t care. She was being paid to share in the fantasy and intended to enjoy it to the fullest.
“Ladieees!” a young M said as he led two other boys to intercept Sara and her friends. The leader strode with wide steps while making broad arm sweeps, the other two seemed to drift behind, walking like proper Citizens. All three wore wigs of short to mid-length hair, all blonds despite their heavily Asian features. One of the followers wore a dark mustache and the other a blond beard.
The leader, the only one comfortable in his outfit and persona, was 821-M. When Alphas came to an appointment for the first time, they usually hired an Actor to guide them.
Sara stopped before the three boys and giggled, elbow-poking May to follow suit.
Nana stepped to the front, saying, “So, boys, you think you got it?”
“Oh, I know we got it,” 821-M answered. “I’m Michael, and these dudes are . . .”
Freedom's Light: Short Stories Page 11