|
|
|
Where We StandThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Robert Quintin Penn | |
| Tuesday, 17 June 2008 | |
Just as he should, and always does, he sat up immediately at the sound of the awakening bell. It was his day. Throwing the covers to the left, folding them in half in the process, he turned and set his feet on the ground. Oddly the wooden floor did not bite his feet in their cold temperature difference. The closet stood immediately in front of him. Ripping it open his black jump suit hung. Hurrying, the suit was on, so were the boots, and he was out of the door of his apartment room.
Now he could drive. He could buy a vehicle and have it in the lot so that he did not have to depend upon the government monorail, or his own to feet, to do his traveling. No, the money could be spent on better things. Besides he would have to register the vehicle with the government, pay an extra two-hundred, then he would have to be extremely careful keeping it working. He could walk to work if he was well enough, but the rail was always his preferred method. Time is simply a plan, not a constraint for the man.
Down the stone steps he turned right, going up the ever so slight incline, there was no one in his path. He wanted to run, but he lacked the will power, as well as the ability at the moment. Even if he did run, the cameras would think he had something to hide. They would be on him in seconds. If you can see them, they can see you. If you cannot, they still can, and then it is all over for you. He took his sweet time.
After a mile's walk and about twelve minutes later, he reached the station. The metal stairs had their dark gray color, their small ridged teeth helping to keep traction of the stompers' shoes. The indifferent face stayed with the man as he boarded the rear most train-car. Men wearing identical suits were sitting in the train, a few women too. Being apathetic as well as his concentration on his annual responsibility, he took a lone seat away from everyone else, but near the door. He kept his eyes locked on the door, not making eye contact with anyone.
The center of downtown was composed of skyscrapers, the four tallest in the center in a box formation. As they got further from the center, the tower's height shortened, until it reached the residential districts, and finally the flat rural farmlands. Only the higher-ups lived in the center of the city, in the penthouses topping the four central towers. Propaganda was everywhere, showing their big, tall man in his black Ike jacket. Like Mecca to the muslims, people turned towards him on a daily basis out of respect. Life was not difficult under him, it is just that natural selection was now ruled by the man. “Go forth and conquer!” was the slogan. The identical male clones were housed in an underground facility; all were destined to become soldiers. Citizens could join the military, but they usually stayed in the city. There were cloned females, that lived out in the farm districts in the government controlled farmhouses. They were fertile, unlike the naturally born females, who simply held jobs in the city. The opposite was true for the male clones, being sterile but working without question. Naturally born men were mostly fertile, but those who weren't were conditioned for induction into the military. It was a city that could not be attacked, nor anyone could defend against, but all outside nations agreed: it was FUBAR.
As the day dream ended he saw the next stop approaching. Down the staircase was the building where he worked. He had wasted enough energy with that walk, already being plagued by a slight illness, so he took the elevator. Twelfth floor. Standing up as straight as possible, he tried not to look too ill, hoping the camera wouldn't sound an alarm for his extermination. Illness was not tolerated for the sake of others.
In the small room his secretary and lover was typing up data pertaining to the amount of money grossed in the previous month. For a second she looked up and saw him, looked down, and did a double take. “Henry!” she said enthusiastically. “Natasha, do you know what today is?” he asked.
“Negative, sir. Is it anything special?” “Yes, Natasha. Today,” he leaned towards here, lowering his voice, “I have to go out to the government farm.” Henry stood upright again. “Ooh!” Natasha blushed. “Well...um...that means our meeting will have to wait until tomorrow?” “Affirmative. Otherwise I would take you out back right now. And you know that I can only see you during work hours. I need to stay on task here, and I cannot deviate. If only I could see you after hours...” he sighed, “Oh well. Continue on with your work.” “Yes sir!”
In a great plethora of colors the sky drew down like a curtain around the sun in the west, as the day was coming to a close. It took over two hours for him to reach the farmhouse, by the tram, and eventually a police van with other men. The time was 1700 when he arrived. One by one in single file, they entered.
“Von Lect, Henry. Number eighteen-hundred. One hundred eighty-two days since last donation...alright. No genetic diseases. Looks like you barely made it before you were overdue here. Your room is number twenty five, second hallway.” a man in a white lab coat pointed to his right at the second of three doors, as he read off his clipboard. Henry went on through.
The hallway was an impeccable white, the only other colors being the lines that made the individual square tiles, and the brass handles on the doors. Halfway down the hall on the left was the room. It was completely random, who he would be partnered with, but he was always lucky enough to get a good woman, a young woman. It was the only thing that kept him sane when he did not have Natasha available. The brass felt cool against his sweaty palm as he opened the door. Sure enough there was a small bed and a beautiful girl.
It oddly was repulsive to him. Requiring all men to impregnate a clone, when they simply had their female coworkers for their own satisfaction. Then again in order to make history there has to be a future, and clones do not grasp the concept of freewill that well. Mr. Von Lect had waited all day for this moment, with nervousness and general anxiety, but now he had to do what comes naturally.
Such a serious world surrounded them, where freedom was a revolutionary concept, where production was key, where individual life was not important. Mass production was. The stresses of everyday life for a few minutes were gone. In this room, he felt at peace, like he could finally breath. It would be almost half a year since he could get another few minutes of complete and guaranteed peace and privacy. He locked the door behind him.
Copyright 2008 Robert Quintin Penn |
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
via Email