Captive

I called for the autotaxi, then switched my holophone off as I had been ordered, leaving it on the bed with a hastily-scribbled note: “They got me. Off to Diamond Park, then Blue?”

No point in taking anything fancy at all. But I had the Sensoback – was it really undetectable?

I called ‘Activate’ and it hovered in front of me, still the size of a button. Hmmm. “Instruction Manual”. Nothing. “Help” – Nothing. Desperation mounted inside me. “Menu!” “Hey presto!” “Open sesame!!” Then, I thought of old computing. “Commands”. A transparent panel appeared with a long list of words. Phew. “Assign” and “Feedback” stood out, also “Invisible”, “Homing”, “Guard skill” and “Distort”. There was precious little help in the ‘Help’ section. I read up on what I could before the autotaxi arrived. I uttered ‘Deactivate’, storing the Sensoback in my trouser pocket.

Just maybe we’ve a chance.

As I travelled to the park, my mind was whirling, still thinking of how the Sensoback could help. Trump card? No; more like a wild card. If Blue was okay, I didn’t need to use it. I was good as dead – again.

In pitch black, the taxi pulled up to the park’s south entrance. A stony-faced man waited there, wearing a cloth cap and a grey waistcoat over a white shirt, perched by the open gate. Despite his blank face, his eyes conveyed fiery anger to me. “Come with me” he said grimly, fitting a white paper mâché mask over my face before anyone recognised me. “This stays on – no miracles tonight”. The man sent a quick message on his holophone as we began walking together.

We came to a secluded spot between the back of a café and lots of thick bushes, with patches of what seemed like snowdrops breaking out on grassy banks by the side of the path. Similarly dressed men appeared. One of them, who seemed to be the leader, spoke in an American drawl. “Adem…the pleasure is all yours. We’d say hello but we don’t want to.” He activated a short cylinder that hovered in the air, and I realised it was a mini-teleportation device. “We’re going on a trip now.” I felt a sharp jab in my neck – the familiar rush of darkness overpowered me as the sound of mocking laugher faded too.

When I came round, I was in a dirty and grimy wooden shed, straw scattered on the filthy timber floor. My hands were bound uncomfortably behind my back with some sort of glowing red electrical wire I could just about see if I turned my head. I gingerly raised myself up into a crouch, looking through the shed windows and seeing larger wooden buildings outside, lit up by what seemed to be oil lamps. Very primitive for this day and age.

It wasn’t long before the door was unlocked and a guard wearing a boiler suit and carrying a cattle prod advanced towards me. He spat at me: “Colonialist scum. You were stupid and arrogant to come. You think you’ll get out of this alive?” 

He zapped me. I gasped in pain and sank to my knees. My old friend, pain. Cackling sadistically, he meted out more, until I passed out again.

I awoke in another timber building, on the floor, to a pale of icy water being sloshed over me. I looked up a little and saw booted feet then blue overalls, a wooden table, and some chairs. One had paint peeling; the same one I had seen in that holocall.

A man came in, and the guards turned to salute. He sauntered over to the chair and sat in it. I looked up further, and saw he was wearing that white hood from before, but this time no mask to cover the face – the bony face of Blue’s ‘Moron’ guard. Olsen.

“Adem. My, my. Looks like you’re enjoying our hospitality.”

Olsen nodded at a guard, who drew back and smashed my face with a truncheon. I felt incredible pain as colours burned in me. It faded, and I spat out teeth. They were never mine anyway.

At this point, I was pretty sure that I was going to die, right there. Pain: it was just a little more pain, another drop in that almost limitless ocean. I laughed.

“You’re unhinged. You really don’t give a flying?” one of my captors said. “It’s like I told you about this guy – there’s only one person he cares about. Isn’t it sweet.”

Olsen continued. “Want something to eat? Drink? Here.” He passed a guard a Millipede Megaquake. It was tipped all over my face. “It’s not so healthy, anyway. Perhaps it’s good for the complexion.”

“You have me now. I’ll do what you want. Just let her go.”

The hooded man motioned for me be seated, which the guards did as inefficiently as possible. I was positioned on the opposite side of the table to Olsen, so close…I could just dive at him and headbutt him. Bite his face.

Seeming to read my thoughts, he continued. “That red wire around you – any force you recklessly give out will come back on Blue. You really are my bunny now. Play nice, and we can have a pleasant chat. So. How did you know my name was Olsen?”

“I saw you on NeoGrindr and swiped right.”

He grunted. “Whatever. So let’s move on from formalities. Let me make this clear: I hate you as a symbol – it’s nothing personal. The other men – for them it’s exceptionally personal, they are just consumed by disgust for you, they’ve been hating since they were in their cradles. Me, I’m a bit more refined. And someone must lead, and it’s the strongest who come forward to do so when it’s necessary. They are prepared to do whatever it takes: Darwinism in action. The world we created, largely inspired by you.”

I wanted to hear this. “Go on –”

“– You really want to know? Wow. I thought it was just your bleeding-heart act.”

“Sadly, no.”

“Well, okay. You might know that we are descended from patriots from what once constituted the Southern States of the USA. We realised that, of course, the world had to be rebuilt. But America wasn’t rebuilt. It was subjugated. We had rights: to bear arms, to work hard, to raise our families strong and true. Not to be confined to cities and be wrapped in cotton wool. Humans are animals, when all’s said and done.”

He went on. “Utopia? Humans aren’t designed for it. There’s a reason that bloodshed, warfare and might have defined history. That’s who we are. Fighting a constant fight. And without that fight…look what a bunch of artificial primadonnas we became. Case in point –” He gestured at me.

“I – I don’t entirely disagree with you.”

“Yes, I didn’t think so. You came from the past. You get it.”

“But the past was never perfect. People were always striving for better.”

“The ‘striving’ is just the human disease. Think of this. Wooden hut, wife chained to the sink, children hunting little animals and skinning them in front of a burning log fire. Father dragging the big kill home. Then, drunkenly asserting himself down the village later, vying for leadership, so campaigns can be planned against the nearby settlement. To take their women, resources: something. That’s living. That’s the pinnacle of life that society can’t accept.”

“That’s your image of perfection?”

“And what of yours? Your artificial body? Your mutant doe-eyed blue princess? It’s utter hypocrisy, the cover doesn’t match the book – and of course, nothing personal against her.”

“What’s inside her isn’t barbaric!”

“She is human, so the answer is – yes, it is. To subjugate or be subjugated. That is the definition of all relationship attachments. Modern psychology and therapy exist to justify and soothe it. Technology and comfort exist to bribe people into it.”

“That’s a very…cold view.”

“But you don’t outright dismiss it. Interesting. Well, I guess you haven’t been indoctrinated your whole life. I do accept my view is very stark – but it’s authentic. The Sect pine for that authenticity. Had you come along a while ago, they might have been listened to. Then where would I be? I – I want power. I accept my human nature is to dominate or be dominated. I haven’t had that psychoanalysed to the point of invisibility. And you see all the lovely people you met? It’s just circumstance. Put them in the real world and see what they revert to. Not as civilised and evolved as you think when they are competing to survive.”

He went on. “Only one kick will bring the rotten wall down. Your purpose was to prop up that rotten wall. You’re the poster boy on it! And now, you’re on your own. They’ll wash their hands of you – but your stink won’t ever come off them.”

He gestured to the door. “Bring him in, boys.”

A familiar figure came in, wearing lab overalls. It was Dr Frank Fisher.