Progtopia: Book 1 of The Progtopia Trilogy (9 page)

Fifteen

The Year: 2172

After the Judge and Social Keeper entered his limousine, the Judge activated the soundproof barrier before he spoke. “How long have you been a Social Keeper?”

“This is my second year, Your Honor.”

“Do you know why I chose you?” The Social Keeper shook his head, unsure. “I chose you because you have an excellent training record. Your test scores are superb. You have never been in trouble and have always followed your superiors’ commands. We need more Social Keepers like you. Today is your lucky day! You will be getting a promotion, and that, my boy, will be effective immediately.”

The Social Keeper, hardly able to contain his excitement, tried to appear calm for the Judge.
If only my training buddies could see where I am right now,
he thought. He was positive many saw him leave with the Judge. At school, they beat, teased and humiliated him as a child. Where were they now? Not with the Judge. His life-long ambition was to become a Social Keeper to arrest and torture those who harassed him. Now, he would have the last laugh.

“I have some business over at the Institute of Science and Bioethics. You will come with me. After that, we can get over to the Ministry of Justice and Reeducation and get your paperwork started.”

Deactivating the sound barrier and turning on the communication screen, the Judge and the Social Keeper watched the continuous replays of themselves leaving Nikolai’s home with the book in hand, as well as Nikolai’s perp walk with reporters shouting questions in his face.

Arriving at the Institute of Science and Bioethics, they walked unaccompanied to the stainless steel–lined elevator, taking it to the top floor. Exiting, they passed two Social Keepers flanking the exit. The young Social Keeper nodded to his colleagues, wondering if they were jealous he was with the Judge. They proceeded forward down the sterile, empty hallway, whose ambience embodied the aura of the Institute. Cold. Unsympathetic. Reaching the end of the long passage, they approached two more guards standing at attention at the secure entrance to the lab. The entry pad read Judge Kelleher’s thumb print and DNA while the eye scanner imaged his iris. A voice, coming from nowhere, echoed, “Welcome, Judge and guest,” as the door automatically opened.

Standing on the other side to greet them was Dr. Milton, the head of the Institute. Ironically, he possessed many human imperfections that should have led to termination of his life. Everything about him was the antithesis of current social norms. A small, plump, fidgety man with a nervous twitch in his left eye—all characteristics that were considered defective—Dr. Milton’s life was spared by the government because his intellect was of a genius category. “Well, Judge, what have you brought me today?”

“Oh, this young man is a remarkable Social Keeper. He was very helpful to us this morning.” The young Social Keeper smiled proudly.

Standing in a laboratory for the first time, the Social Keeper looked around in awe. Dr. Milton, perceiving the young man’s wonderment, said, “Let me show you around. All the technology you have come to enjoy started in this very room.” As he guided them through the maze of computer screens, test tubes, large samples of human specimens, microscopes, and sterile hoods, the Social Keeper’s amazement grew. When they reached the far end of the lab, they approached a door.

“Judge, in here is something new that I would love to show you.”

The Judge said, “What about him?” pointing to the Social Keeper.

“Your Honor,” Dr. Milton said, “I have no problem with this young man, whom you clearly trust, seeing what is behind the door. In fact, I will let him go in first. That is, if he can be trusted,” he said while looking at the young Social Keeper.

“Yes, Judge, Dr. Milton, I can be trusted,” he said proudly.

Dr. Milton, using his DNA and iris screen, opened the door. The Judge and Dr. Milton put their arms out as if to say, after you. The Social Keeper eagerly entered the room as the door closed quickly behind him. The professor pushed another button lifting the wall to reveal a glass window looking directly into the vacant white room where the Social Keeper was standing. Bewildered, the Social Keeper peered into the window, which from his side, was a mirror. The Judge spoke into a microphone, projecting his voice into the Social Keeper’s room. “Do you actually think I can risk you talking? The doctor here will take good care of you. He needs human volunteers for certain experiments. You will make a wonderful specimen. Consider this your promotion.”

The Social Keeper, now panicking, frantically banged on the mirror, screaming and begging for help. As he pleaded for mercy, a mist started to fill the room. The gas paralyzed his vocal cords, silencing him forever. The Judge, amused by the Social Keeper’s sudden turn of events, started laughing, knowing that Dr. Milton had many fun experiments in store for him.

Sixteen

The Year: 2172

Nikolai, strapped to a chair, had been sitting in the interrogation room for hours, pondering his fate. He glanced at the IV inserted in his arm, wondering whether he would be injected with the State’s infamous formula known for inducing agonizing pain or whether they would get right to it and execute him. No matter what the course of events, death was a foregone conclusion. That, in itself, he did not fear, but his uncertainty was more rooted in whether or not he could withstand torture. The last thing he wanted to do was betray his contacts.

His worry heightened when the secure door to his room automatically slid open revealing his interrogator, Jonathan Kelleher. In a black suit and black tie, Jonathan stood there glaring in a silent and sinister manner. With no resemblance remaining to the boy Nikolai had known his entire life, he had instead transformed into a malevolent human being. “Nikolai,” he stated disgustedly, “how could you?” Not expecting or waiting for an answer, he circled Nikolai’s chair slowly, creating an air of intimidation. Leaning close to Nikolai’s face, he whispered, “What were you thinking? Are you mad?”

“It wasn’t me,” Nikolai protested. “I didn’t take that book. I didn’t even know it was there until this morning,” he said, eyes pleading. “Jonathan, you’ve known me since you were a boy. Does this sound like something I would do?”

“Nikolai, everyone who sits in this chair says the same thing.” For emphasis, Jonathan waved his hands in the air and yelled, “I’m innocent, I didn’t do it—blah, blah, blah. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times. Let’s just move on, and tell me who you’re working with.”

“No one, Jonathan. How could I work with anyone? I haven’t done anything! I’m a designer.”

“Well, Nikolai, you have a decision to make. You see, I have two syringes.” Jonathan pulled them from his pocket. One had a red fluid inside it, and the other was clear. “Both of these will kill you. Depending on how you answer, one way will be quick, and the other one, well,” he paused, “not such a fun way to die.” Leaning close to Nikolai he said, “I like you, but the fact remains you broke the law. I can’t change that. We both know how this is going to end, so pick the easy way out and start telling me who your contacts are.”

“Jonathan, you know me. Contacts? I have many—they are called my clients,” he said forcefully. “If you’re willing to suggest that half of the State officials, businessmen, and movie stars are in on some treasonous conspiracy, then I really have nothing else to say to you. If you actually believe what’s coming out of your mouth, Jonathan, then you should just inject me now—you can kill me either way because I’m finished talking.”

Jonathan placed both syringes back into his pocket. Without another word, he walked from the room, perplexed. Most people sitting in the interrogation room confess the moment the syringes come out. Not Nikolai. Either he was really innocent, or he was a brilliant liar. No matter. He had a soft spot for Nikolai and couldn’t bring himself to inject him. He would leave that to someone else.

Seventeen

The Year: 2172

Thatcher spent the entire day in school dazed, distraught, and distant. Her focus was off. She was only thinking of Nikolai. What were they doing to him? Was he okay? She couldn’t help but think she could be responsible for what had happened to him. She talked to him about things she shouldn’t have, but she trusted him. Did she make him interested in that book, causing him to steal it out of curiosity? What had she done? These thoughts inundated her mind. Unable to stave off the flood of emotion they brought, she became more withdrawn throughout the day.

At lunch, all conversation was Nikolai-related, but the girls at her table were more worried about what was going to happen to the state of fashion if he was executed than about him. They treated his inevitable execution as their personal fashion tragedy. Panicked more about the turmoil his death would cause to fashion trends than about his innocence or suffering, each of Thatcher’s friends revealed their true self. They were superficial, devoid of humanity, and lacked any form of a soul. Disgusted by their emptiness, she couldn’t eat.

Toward the end of lunch, Thomas Quinn came over. “How’re you holding up?”

Thatcher, in no mood for conversation, even with Thomas Quinn, lashed out. “Why, are you worried about the summer fashion line too?” Her eyes were angry. He had never seen her this way.
This guy must really mean something to her
, he thought.

“Thatch, look at me.” He pointed to himself up and down. “Does it look like I care about the summer fashion line? I’m just worried about you. I know he was your friend. Even if he did it, the whole thing sucks.”

Knowing he meant well was not consoling her. She didn’t want to talk. She just needed to get through the day and home to work out.

“It’s just not a good time for me. I’m not really in the mood to talk, and I have to get going to my next class.” With that, she picked up her E-pad and walked away. Thomas Quinn was left staring at her, wondering what he needed to do to make her his girlfriend.

The rest of the day was a blur to Thatcher. Finally arriving home, she headed to her home gym which was spacious and large with no expense spared. Not a fan of the virtual reality workout systems, she preferred authentic weightlifting, kickboxing, and running outdoors.

Deciding the music to go along with her mood was a challenge. Unlike others who only had access to State-sanctioned music, she was able to search a music library filled with every piece ever composed from classic to rock, blues, country—everything was at her fingertips. Thatcher usually selected music that was written during the particular era of history she was studying in school, but that was not her focus of the moment. Today, it was time to listen to her favorites.

With her music blasting and her hands taped, she walked over to the punching bag and began beating it with ferocity. Her vicious blows were interrupted with spinning high kicks to the heavy boxing sack. An hour of uppercuts, high kicks, and jabs was cathartic.

Still pounding away, sweat dripping from her body, Thatcher was startled by her brother’s entrance. Turning off her music, he let the silence fill the room, saying nothing, just staring at her with his cold, hard eyes. Not letting him intimidate her, she leaned over as she put her hands on her knees, out of breath and panting. Irritated by her brother, she said, “What do you want?”

“What do I want? What do I want! Are you concerned that Nikolai is in custody? Did you give him that book? You think I don’t know you talk to him? I never said anything because frankly, I think you’re a complete idiot going nowhere in government or life. If dad had his way, he would marry you off to someone, keeping you secluded like he does Mom. But now, people are questioning Nikolai. The book came from our house. So, you want to know what I want? I will tell you. I want you to admit you gave the book to Nikolai.”

Thatcher couldn’t believe her ears. Sure, she confided in Nikolai while growing up, but she didn’t give him that book. What did her brother think of her? Never seeing this side of him until recently, she feared he was becoming like their father. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of him. “I didn’t give Nikolai the book. I can’t believe that would even cross your mind! Why would I give him something that would guarantee his death?”

“So, you admit you didn’t give it to him because it might end his life, not because it’s wrong?”

“You’re twisting my words. Of course, it’s wrong to give those books out, but I certainly wouldn’t do something that would result in the execution of someone I care about. Sure, I talked to him about the book, and I always told him about my history lessons. He would just listen. We never really discussed things in depth.”

“Just as I suspected! You talk to him and tell him things he shouldn’t know—that most people on this earth don’t know. Of course, he got inquisitive about things. So, he took the book. Do I really have to ask you what kind of things you told him? What kind of damage control do I need to do? You know if any of this information comes out during torture, you will be arrested and executed, and me and Father—we’ll be done for.”

“Is that all you care about? Your dumb career? Have you even thought about Nikolai? Did you see him today? Is he okay?”

“Right now, he’s just fine. Tomorrow could be a long day for him if he doesn’t confess. It could be bad for us too if you don’t tell me exactly the types of things you told Nikolai over the years.”

Thatcher was pretty angry. Already blaming herself for his arrest, she was now afraid of what might happen to her family. Maybe she should tell Jonathan the topics they discussed.

“Jonathan, I can’t remember everything I told him. I guess whatever history we were studying in school, and how it was not always the truth. I told him about some of the fiction I read and what it was like to live before the Crash. I can’t give any specifics, but you get the idea.”

“Did he ever ask you any questions? Did he show any interest?”

“He would just always ask what I thought about things.”

“Did you ever give him your opinions?”

“I never lied to Nikolai. I trust him.”

“Trust him? You see how far that has gotten you! He’s sitting in prison, most likely facing torture and execution, and if he talks about your little conversations, you might be sitting right next to him! Why did you do it?”

“I did it because I had to talk to someone! The world we live in is false! Most human experiences in life are not even real. Everyone has their virtual reality. It’s becoming more difficult to distinguish the real world from the virtual one. Sure, everything is perfect according to what the
State
has defined as perfect—but why can’t I date Marco if I want to? Why can’t I see Jake socially? Why do we have separation of social classes? The Recipient Class! What a euphemism—what a play on words. I wonder if they even know.”

“Know what, Thatcher? The way I see it, they have it pretty good. They have food, shelter, good health, and work to keep them occupied.”

“That’s your problem, Jonathan—hook, line, and sinker—you swallowed the State propaganda bull. The Recipient Class! All they do is work all day to make
our
lives what they are. They grow up in same-sex State homes. They’re groomed for their adult occupation from the age of three. They’re not allowed to reproduce, love, or be free!”

“Thatcher, you are truly crazy, and it’s going to get you into big trouble. Really though, I don’t care, as long as you don’t bring me down with you.”

After making his point, he left, and she went back to working out. Throwing jabs against the punching bag, she muttered, “God, if You exist, please help Nikolai. Help me. Give me strength. Please give me strength.” She continued to pound the bag until she exhausted all of her energy.

Jonathan retreated to his room. Removing a small metal object from his pocket, he waved it over the screen of his E-pad. Automatically uploading the conversation he just had with his sister, he sat down to edit the conversation for future use. Like he told her, he was not going down with her.