Uprising

by Justin Kemppainen

  Chapter 9: Deception

  The man called Jeffrey, upon exiting Michaels' room, ceased his stuttering walk and traveled as normal through the hallway. He couldn't believe the stroke of luck allowing him to get into Michaels' living space so soon. Of course, the Re-education Center was always relieved to have such a willing, eager subject.

  Servant housing was located about one hundred feet away from the western face of the Institute in a small park area: a safe distance with concealment that kept any Citizens nearby more at ease. It was widely understood that, although cured of any aggression or barbarism, the impure denizens gleaned from down below were still inferior specimens of humanity, and no one wanted much direct contact with them.

  As he passed outside, he again marveled at the sidewalks, a lightweight yet dense ceramic tile material of milky white hue. Panels of these stretched everywhere, and the city floor was largely composed of similar materials. Strong, but not so heavy as to collapse everything below as existing structures continued their rise and new ones cropped up.

  Maintenance appeared to be in the forefront of concern; the Citizens did not wish to let their decadent society crumble, especially not in any literal sense. Jeffrey looked up again at the circular field overhead, shimmering and allowing the clear blue sky and morning sunlight to filter through. Jeffrey had no idea what it was or why it was necessary. Some kind of force field, maybe? He stared for a moment, contemplating possibilities far beyond his experience.

  Jeffrey had spent less than three hours at the Re-education Center before they deemed him appropriate and prepared to serve. It had merely taken a measure of proper eagerness and gratitude to convince them to send him to work at the Institute as part of cleaning and maintenance. They weren't monsters; servants were given at least a measure of regard after having emotions stripped and their reproduction crippled.

  It actually seemed a little too easy. Jeffrey was somewhat uncertain as to which method of preparation allowed him to keep pieces of his mind intact. Perhaps it was the deep, drugged conditioning that Elijah subjected him to for months, feeding him the answers he would hopefully repeat under similar conditions.

  In addition, they devised another measure that would hopefully keep his mind relatively together. In a small false tooth at the back of his mouth, was a dose of rohypnol. Before he was strapped into the patient bed, he loosened it with his tongue, painfully as his face was swollen and tender from the severity of the beating, and swallowed it. Shortly after, he blacked out.

  Jeffrey was unaware of how Elijah knew so much about what he called the "conditioning process," but he was assured that the delta-wave, deep unconsciousness gained from the drug would minimize the effects of the sensory bombardment. Elijah said it would keep his mind from being panicked into any weakened state.

  Of course, had the administrator, Michaels, been paying a great deal of attention during those hours, he may have noticed that Jeffrey's heart rate and blood pressure dropped almost dangerously low. Michaels also would have noticed that Jeffrey didn't move much or react as prominently as other subjects.

  As Jeffrey, lucky to be alive and luckier yet to retain conscious thought, passed from the tile sidewalk into the park, he marveled at the lush grass.

  He smiled for a moment, enjoying the feeling of life around him before his body convulsed. His entire muscle system seemed to spasm, and he collapsed on the ground, writhing in pain. A scream threatened to tear loose, but he fought to keep silent, biting down on his cheeks.

  There had been a few side-effects. Most times, his body trembled, whether out of withdrawal or something else he didn't know. He'd barely eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours since he'd been captured, discreetly throwing up everything he took down. He suffered from a droning headache as well as the occasional severe muscle cramp. A medical condition, a primary reason for his volunteering, had plagued him for years before this, but it seemed to be getting much worse.

  After a moment on the ground, his abused system relaxed, leaving his body feeling drained. He picked himself up, swaying and unsteady on his feet before resuming a slower pace towards the servants' quarters. Once inside the structure, he proceeded to the laundry room to deposit his cleaning supplies. He stopped in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He winced at the sight of his heavily bruised and beaten exterior.

  Jeffrey held his head under the running sink, letting cool water rinse away his perspiration. Drying himself with paper towels, he put on his most passive, agreeable face, phasing into the servile character expected of him.

  Once the servants were indoctrinated, they were largely ignored by Citizenship, who often would go out of their way to avoid any contact with them. They trusted so much in Michaels' skill and procedure, as well as the ignorance and inferiority of those taken from down below, that the servants became nearly invisible. "Perfect for intelligence gathering," Elijah had said.

  However, strategic, political, and military planning was handled by the higher class Citizenship, and they guarded their speech carefully. Jeffrey held no illusions of receiving tactical data, but that was not his primary purpose.

  He volunteered for the job in order to cultivate a brief deception, leading to a massacre of Citizen soldiers. Anything else he managed would be considered a bonus.

  When he had been approached by Elijah with questions about the feasibility of an operation like this, Jeffrey volunteered immediately to do the job, considering it of vital importance.

  Jeffrey was another insightful, gifted young man left unwanted by any guardian when restrictions on Citizenship loosened. Elijah seemed to have a knack for finding people of that caliber, and Jeffrey's mild-mannered temperament and average physique would have left him dead from starvation within a month of the Final Separation. As with so many others, Elijah took him in and inspired the same fierce loyalty.

  During the planning phase for his subterfuge, Jeffrey and Elijah had crafted the perfect set of information to bring concern to the high-order Citizens. Intelligent leadership mobilizing forces in a certain location, munitions discovered, and other worrisome bits seemed to have set the Citizens into a flurry as Elijah predicted it would. The difficult part, making sure Jeffrey could relay that specific information after interrogation and conditioning, had already been completed.

  As he continued to stare into the mirror, Jeffrey's body started getting chills, shaking. He gripped the sides of the sink, willing his body to cease trembling. He was briefly thankful for the bruises scattered across his body, giving him an excuse to appear to be in poor condition. He did not want much scrutiny in his direction regarding anything, including bad health. Not that it matters, he thought.

  His health had been on a steady decline for months, and it was only in the last day that the cramping, nausea, and vomiting had descended to this level. At first, a while back, he thought it was merely something like ulcers, but it seemed much worse than that. Without access to anyone who could diagnose or treat it, he could only fear the worst.

  Jeffrey stepped out of the bathroom, taking several deep breaths. Unsurprised, the servant summons on his bed was lit, indicating he was being called somewhere. He pressed the button, and a short message directed him to go see Inquisitor Gottfried.

  He swallowed hard and exited into the soft morning light. He hadn't any clue if his body could handle the punishment. He didn't know if he would seize, swallow his tongue and suffocate or if his heart would simply stop. He shook his head and resumed the duck-footed walk and passive expression. His primary job was finished: any other information about the surface he could manage to pass to Elijah was extra.

  Jeffrey crossed back into a hallway in the living quarters of the Institute, ignored by numerous guards, scientists, and other Citizens. He turned a corner, keeping his head down as he continued the stuttering gait until he moved through a hallway and a set of doors into the main lobby of the Institute. The square room featured four columns spaced evenly from the corners and a large, circular cent
ral reception desk with a marble top and various stalls. Jeffrey thought it looked like a bank.

  During the peak hours of the day, there were usually at least three people seated at the large desk, handling everything. "Business?" asked one woman, seated front and center.

  "I'm here to speak with Inquisitor Gottfried. My name is Jeffrey," he said in a small, polite voice.

  She woman glanced down and typed something into a keyboard. She said, not looking at him, "Through those doors." She pointed behind, northward. She pressed a button, and a buzzing could be heard.

  Jeffrey crossed over, pulled the door open, and moved through it. The white tile flooring shifted to waxed, obsidian black. The walls and ceiling remained a sterile white; markings of the eye insignia adorned the hallway on both sides, giving a constant feeling of unease and imbalance. The long hallway ended in another reception area, complete with a similar desk and two wings. Different from the civilian section of the Institute, the Inquisition area held three elevators at the north end instead of a set of doors. On the back wall, emblazoned above the receptionist and elevators in block letters read one word imposed over the eye.

  Vigilance.

  The receptionist, a severe-looking woman in a conservative suit, gave him one appraising look before pressing a button. The elevator doors on the right slid open. Without a word, she gestured, and he moved inside.

  The vertigo of motion without motion rattled his upset stomach as the elevator moved upward. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to resist the nausea. Eventually, the doors slid open once more, and Jeffrey found himself facing a large office. He walked out of the elevator.

  Commendations decorated the walls. Bookshelves containing countless volumes on interrogation, surveillance, and various other related techniques lay at the sides. A large maple desk inlaid with a closed terminal screen was at the center in the back of the room. On his left was a bay window, and Jeffrey could see into the east side of the park.

  The most important offices of the Inquisition were found at the head of the double-armed, cross-shaped Institute, which also served as the north-most structure in the city. As a result, out the window, Jeffrey could see a stretch of the northern wall. Above the wall, instead of horizon, a deep, dark blue haze appeared from the strange, unknown shimmering energy. Obviously, no one saw fit to tell the servants about the sterilization field, not that most of them would be able to comprehend it. Jeffrey was left uncertain and uneasy about it.

  He was not able, however, to stare overlong out the window, as he was being watched by the shrewd and observant Inquisitor Gottfried. Jeffrey steeled himself to play his role carefully.

  The Inquisitor scrutinized him without a word. Jeffrey had flashes of a shed with a cold concrete floor, swinging bare bulb, and physical torture. He remembered a figure silhouetted in the first sunlight he'd seen in twelve years, asking question after question, pausing only to allow the soldiers to pound him further.

  Gottfried was seated in a high-backed, black leather chair, observing Jeffrey as he approached. "You do not look at all well."

  Jeffrey gave the Inquisitor a vacant stare, letting silence permeate before widening his half-lidded eyes in realization. He flung his hands up to his bruised face. "Oh! No, I'm fine, sir. It was my fault for being so stubborn." He put on a grin. "You saved me, in spite of myself, sir. I owe you everything." He clasped his hands together.

  Gottfried kept his face blank, not acknowledging the gratitude. "Sit."

  A metal folding chair was opposite the Inquisitor. Jeffrey seated himself in it, crossed his ankles, and absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Don't over play it, he said to himself. He toned down the fidgeting.

  Gottfried watched him for several moments, sizing him up. Jeffrey felt nervous but was trying very hard to remain absorbed in the beige carpeting.

  The Inquisitor broke the silence. "How much of your prior life do you remember?"

  Jeffrey screwed up his face, as if in thought. "Most of it. I think, sir."

  "Do you recall our sessions yesterday?" Gottfried referred almost casually to the interrogation and battery of questions both pre and post-conditioning.

  Jeffrey gave a huge smile and nodded vigorously. "That was when you saved me. Thank you, sir!"

  "Who did you work for?"

  "Elijah, sir."

  "Where is he located? What is his purpose…"

  On and on, the repeated questions from the previous day continued. Jeffrey answered each in similar fashion with exuberance and the air of one pleased to serve his master. Questions came about Elijah, what he knew about the other community and faction leaders like Sergei and Desmond, locations of dwellings, rough layouts of certain areas, weapons capabilities: all of them rattled by. Gottfried's eyes continued to bore into him, as though willing him to provide some other bit of useful information.

  "What do you know about a Silver Fox crest?"

  Jeffrey almost broke into a huge grin. Had his face not been so marred and distracting, he was sure some subtle reaction would have given him away. "It is the symbol of a man named Miguel. He's a faction leader. Very mean."

  Gottfried frowned, moving on. "You were the most rapid individual to be re-educated in the Center's history; were you aware of that?"

  Jeffrey gave an awed smile. "Me? Really?"

  "Why did you request assignment here?

  Jeffrey offered a confused look. "This… this is my home now, sir. It was where I was…" He screwed up his face again with visibly intense thought. "Where I came into my new life. Sir."

  Gottfried glared at him, frustration edging into his passive expression. "You desired to be near the Institute and Citizen Michaels."

  "He… they, you… saved me. From myself," he put on a disgusted face, "and Elijah."

  There was a twinge in Jeffrey's stomach. He held his expression as the discomfort formed into a cramp, knotting the muscle painfully. He clenched his teeth together. Gripping the arms of his chair tightly, he held his breath and prayed the Inquisitor wouldn't notice the changes in his behavior.

  Gottfried rubbed his eyes with one hand. Jeffrey jumped on the opportunity to try and divert the questioning. Striving to keep the strain out of his voice, he asked, "Is there anything I can get for you, sir? Coffee? Do your quarters need cleaning?"

  "No, that will not be necessary. You may go."

  Jeffrey stood, gave a tidy bow, and walked to the elevator. He kept his vacant expression and downcast posture all the way until he was outside, through agonizing stomach cramps. He hurried from the Institute building over to the servants' barracks and into a bathroom stall. He collapsed against the toilet and let out huge, gasping breaths. His body shook all over, and perspiration cut loose with brutal chills. Waves of nausea passed over him, and he labored to fight them off.

  Even through the intense pain, he cracked a smile. After a few minutes, the discomfort and cramping subsided, but his smile lingered. I win again, he thought. He stood up straight, stretching out. He returned to his slumped posture and expressionless face and walked out of the bathroom, sitting down on his bed. Not standing out, even among the mindless servants, was still a good idea. With no other immediate tasks, he laid down on his bunk and closed his eyes, hints of a smile on his bruised face.