6

 

RECONDITIONING INSTRUCTION LETTER:

(.*?)

 

Dear Eric Basali #117B882QQ

Welcome to Amelix Retreat. You have been admitted for involuntary reconditioning following a suicide attempt, in accordance with your consent in section 14, paragraph 8 of your Corporate Regulations Technician employment contract.

Your new designation here at Amelix Retreat will be: Seeker of Understanding (“Seeker”), Grade 1. You will remain a Seeker until you pass into the ranks of the Accepted.

Pursuant to section 14, paragraph 18 of your Corporate Regulations Technician employment contract, your efficiency implant has been reset for pathway amplification and access has been restricted to allow Amelix Retreat’s internal signals only. Upon graduation from the reconditioning process it will be readjusted to connect once again with the outside world.

You will note that your moods are now more intense than you have previously experienced, and that they have a tendency to compound themselves. Good feelings will make you feel increasingly better, while bad feelings will build on themselves and can rapidly degenerate into acute depression. This is a perfectly normal effect of the pathway amplification process, and in your time here at Amelix Retreat you, like all Seekers, will come to understand and embrace its purpose. Eventually, you will learn to modulate your emotional and physical reactions by implementing the wisdom of your superiors.

Although Seekers do have the right to transfer to another facility, most choose to remain at Amelix Retreat. No other corporation understands your situation as well as Amelix Integrations does, and of course, no other corporation has so much already invested in you. Be advised that only Amelix Retreat is fully covered by your Amelix Loving Care Plan—treatment at all other institutions will require additional payment. Because certain aspects of reconditioning care do involve file review by a licensed Medical Doctor, the out-of-pocket cost of your care at another institution will be substantial and could lead to severe financial hardship, which may complicate the recovery process.

Reconditioning does take time. Rest assured that Amelix Integrations believes you are worth the investment. Your readiness for advancement within the program will be assessed based on your demonstrated desire to improve as well as on your level of cooperation with the program directives and with your fellow Seekers. The involuntary program typically lasts between ten and fifty weeks. The degree of your dedication to the reconditioning process will determine the rate of your progress.

Because reconditioning is a personal matter which is often brought about by unpleasant happenings in the workplace, privacy is stringently protected at all times during your stay. Most of your time will be spent in your quarters, with virtual group meetings, nondenominational religious services and communal meals all taking place by holographic projection. You will find an identity-protective face cover next to your bed, which must be worn for all holographic meetings and excursions from your quarters. You are permitted to uncover your face when you are not interacting with other Seekers.

Once you have joined the ranks of the Accepted, your shame will have been erased. You will again be free to leave your face uncovered and walk with your head held high.

Use of proper names among Seekers is prohibited. For now, you must address others by the numbers on their face covers only. Violation of these rules will result in seclusion from all Seekers exposed to your face or name until all such Seekers have graduated from the program.

Please enter your thoughts and feedback immediately as directed on the form below.

Sincerely,

Your Amelix Corporate Family

Amelix Retreat

A subsidiary of Amelix Integrations

 

Reconditioning Feedback Form:

Seeker of Understanding

INVOLUNTARY, GRADE ONE

 

Subject: Eric Basali, #117B882QQ

(.*?)

 

1. Please describe your relationship with Amelix Integrations, including your feelings about the company and your interactions with it. Honesty is imperative.

This is my third attempt to fill out this stupid form. The last two were deemed unacceptable due to “lack of frankness and detail.” You want to know what I think of your company? Fine.

YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME DIE! You forced me to stay alive so you could protect your investment, because after all, you paid for my education and therefore you own me. You’ve always controlled every aspect of my life: my home and food, my exercise and social habits, and even my family, leaving almost no decision up to me. You blurred the line where my company ended and I, myself, began, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you wouldn’t let me escape.

Evidently, control of my corporeal being isn’t enough for you. You locked me up here so you can manipulate my psyche, because now you want my soul.

2. Please share some details of your experience here at Amelix Retreat today.

I don’t understand why you denied my request for real paper on which to answer these questions. I know paper is expensive, but when you’re already spending so much to recondition me, I hardly think the cost is significant. Paper is real. It’s a product you can pick it up and hold. I set the machine to let me write with a stylus on a handheld screen, but it isn’t the same. The only explanation I received was that paper is unconventional and we are here to learn the value of what’s conventional.

All right. I’ll tell you about my first day as your captive. When I first opened my eyes, I discovered I was naked. I thought I might be in a fancy hotel; the carpet and furnishings here are really first-rate, I must admit. I remembered my suicide attempt and briefly wondered if this might be the afterlife. Then I noticed that the curtains opened up on a brick wall, and the air had a heavy feeling that told me I was somewhere underground—maybe this was Hell. As consciousness settled in, I started to feel terribly sick—from your pathway amplification, of course.

A little while after that, an Accepted came in and put the hood on me. I asked for clothes to wear but he said I would be spending all my time in the room and I would have no need of them. He told me his name was Andrew, and then he “escorted” me to religious services and group therapy, which means he stood behind me without speaking and manipulated the computer to show my required meeting at the appropriate time: holograms with images assembled into collections of hooded prisoners just like me, all of us virtually dressed in Amelix uniforms.

The group hologram looked like some lounge or living room. I remember that its walls and carpet were done in soft loam shades and the couches and chairs were all covered in synth leather with tones of copper and rust. The only thing that looked out of place was a giant steel door with heavy bolts and locks in the middle of one wall, which everyone seemed to make a point of ignoring.

There are eleven other prisoners in my group, plus me. They all try and speak like Accepted do, but they haven’t yet perfected that rolling Accepted voice that enunciates every word when they talk about the company. The numbers we’re supposed to use instead of names are too long, so they all had number/letter nicknames. They decided mine would be “2Q.” Each of their holograms hugged mine.

I don’t remember all their nicknames. It was too creepy, with them telling me how my suicide attempt meant I didn’t feel worthy of my place within the company family and I must learn to accept Amelix’s love for me, or how I gave up on myself but Amelix never did. I was so repulsed I couldn’t pay attention to their nicknames.

I don’t understand why these people are in group when they’re already spouting your rhetoric as if they’d written it themselves. They took turns reciting to each other the same stupid mantras we’ve all heard our whole lives: “Amelix provides for all what none could provide alone.” Then they confessed about their “selfish” former selves, who let down the company in various ways, some of them exceedingly trivial. They sniffled and wiped their eyes, saying how guilty they felt. “Turning your back on Amelix is turning your back on everyone who loves you,” one guy said. Somehow he managed to add a convincing sob at the end. Apparently, this is what you want me to become; Amelix employees are only allowed to die from the neck up.

I’m not sure how you evaluate people for moving through the program. In case my feedback is used for others, I should mention one who was genuinely kind and who tried to be helpful. I wouldn’t want her to be stuck here longer than she has to be. Her nickname, “D-L,” was the only one I remembered, not just because she was kind but also because it was easy to imagine as a real name: “Dee-Elle.” I don’t know her number but she was the only one with a ponytail sticking out from under her hood. She said she could tell I was smart and sensitive and in great pain, and she was going to do whatever she could to help me.

We have a “combat simulation” tomorrow, against Andro-Heathcliffe. I think it’s funny that our company’s sworn enemy wants to pit its reconditioning class against us.

3. Please describe the important relationships in your life.

You know about my family already, better than I do, since they’ve all spent more time at work than at home. My family has never been close and I don’t have any friends. You’ve made it clear that I won’t be allowed to eat or sleep until I give you detailed answers to every question here, but I don’t know what else I can tell you.

4. Please share any additional thoughts or comments.

The rest of number 4 should read: “Or we’ll keep making you fill out this form until you starve or go crazy from sleep deprivation.”

I wanted a quiet death, not a tortured, grisly one. That’s why I didn’t just quit or let myself be fired. Simple nonexistence trumps the horrific violence, exposure, and starvation of “life” among the Departed, but you have denied me that option. I didn’t realize that a failed attempt would land me here, even if it is buried in a contract somewhere, but now I understand why.

I felt I had no choice but to kill myself. This proves that I can’t imagine a life outside the organization. People coming here to ask for voluntary reconditioning prove the same thing. No matter which program we go through, we all arrive convinced you are the key to our survival, which makes us close to complete surrender.

Obviously, I haven’t turned out as you intended. But what choices have I ever had? I grew up in company housing, went to company school, then company college. I am more than your malfunctioning employee—I am your product! Now I’m locked up here, waiting for you to break me down and reconfigure my pieces.

Go ahead. Do your worst. What do I have left to fear?

Inside Agent Hawkins’s brain:

“Agent Daiss! It’s Hawkins. The train station’s cameras showed the kid switching trains. He’s headed back to the Zone. Any thoughts on where he might be going?”

“Yeah, I have a pretty good idea. There’s some snake-oil, roots-and-tree-bark, mumbo-jumbo doctor in the building where the kid took the call from his mother. Get this: It’s a real, honest-to-God black man—got to be the last Negro in a hundred miles. He’s got an apartment there—seems like just the sort these people would go to with a cut like young Ricker gave that waitress. I’m on my way now.”

Dok’s place:

Eadie’s face throbbed. She lightly touched the area around the scab, making the stitches sting. The cut and the bruises had different aches that overlapped and intensified each other in a way that made her sick to her stomach. Dok was leaning over the table, picking at teeth in a ten-year-old boy’s mouth. The boy lay completely motionless and made no sound.

“Okay,” Dok told the boy’s mother. “I’ve flaked off the decay. Now, in an ideal situation I’d be able to fill in these spots with porcelain or amalgam.” He shook his head. “But I don’t have anything like that. I’m going to use this industrial glue. It’s waterproof once it dries, and it’s tough as hell. If it does come off you can bring him back but I think this’ll take care of the problem for now. It’s at least as important to change his oral hygiene habits as it is to fix the teeth, though.”

Eadie’s gaze was drawn to the Prophet, who had been staring at her since she woke up. He nodded. A female patient sitting next to him was now looking at Eadie, too.

“It’s a good thing we were able to put Tim under hypnosis,” Dok told the mother. “He would probably find this next part pretty unpleasant, otherwise. And while he’s still suggestible, we can help him erase his bad habits and write in good ones, just as if they were written on a chalk board.” He held up a matching set of pincher-shaped pieces of plastic. “I’ve got to put these between his cheeks and gums, and then tie the ends together to hold the cheeks away while the glue dries. The whole mouth gets dry this way, but I’ll give him a few drops of water at the back of his throat every few minutes until we bring him out of hypnosis. It takes about twenty minutes for the glue to set.”

“Tim?” Dok said. The boy remained utterly still, with pieces of plastic standing out from his mouth at odd angles. His lips and gums were already dry and wrinkled. “Tim, you still feel completely comfortable,” Dok said. “And, starting today, you will love to take care of your teeth. Brushing your teeth will be your favorite part of the day.” Dok winked at the mother.

Eadie turned her head. The Prophet was now standing next to her. He nodded again but remained silent, less than arm’s length away. She nodded in reply, enveloped in the sodje vapors that had trailed him. “Hi,” she said.

“Yes. Thank you, General,” the Prophet said.

Eadie cleared her throat. “Is there something you want, Prophet?”

“Yes. Thank you, General. Are you aware that this place is quite dangerous?”

“The Zone? Yeah, everyone knows the Zone is dangerous, Prophet. But nobody brings any trouble into Dok’s place. It just works that way. I read once that wild animals never attacked each other around watering holes …” She paused, gently placing her palm over the wound on her cheek. “Something like that. Anyway, I think Dok’s place is like a watering hole.”

“With all respect, General, perhaps the animals at watering holes were safe from each other. However, they were especially vulnerable there to human hunters, because they were entirely exposed and their guard was down. What I am referring to here is of the same order. It is not the violent individuals living in the Zone whom you must fear at this moment. It is the outsiders, those who falsely claim to represent a higher power.” The Prophet went silent, his face turning wooden again.

Eadie rolled her eyes over at Dok, who shrugged. She nodded slightly. “That’s fine, Prophet. Thanks. I’ll … I’ll take that under advisement.”

The Prophet gave his same closed-eyed half-nod, half-bow and went back to sit down against the wall.

The new train, headed back into the Zone:

“Coming out!” Lawrence said, pushing against the wall of bodies that separated him from the train doors. “This is my stop! Let me out, please!”

He struggled and shoved, but the doors closed again before he reached them. The train started moving, the crowd at the station speeding by and blurring until the platform was lost from sight. Lawrence forced his way through the throng of passengers, making his way toward the doors and looking at the map to see where the next stop would let him off.

Shitbox Manor:

“Augh!” Old Fart yelled, jerking his arm back from a hole in the floor that was nearly the size of his desk top back at Celarwil-Dain.

“Huh?” Kel sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“I was …” Old Fart squeezed his eyes shut hard and blinked a few times. His eyelids were like wet, sticky rags. “I rolled over in my sleep and I almost fell into this hole in your floor!”

Kel made a frustrated hissing noise. “Told you when we came in last night, man. Security, is what that is. See how it’s right inside the door?” He pointed down the hole at the room below. “Door’s nailed shut down there, got sharp sticks pokin’ up, broken glass, alla dat. You hadta jump over it when we came in, remember?”

“I don’t remember anything.” He lightly fingered a bruise on the underside of his jaw. “Except that we were attacked last night.” He covered his face with his palms. “I feel awful.”

“Yer hung over, dummy,” Kel said. “That’s why.”

“Humph.” A hangover … if only that was all. His brain felt like a giant blister of poison had formed there, threatening to rupture with the slightest disturbance. That was from the alcohol. Then there were the bruises and abrasions from the fight. But he realized that the rest of his body was struggling to adjust to life without his various synthesized medications. His eyes, nose, throat, and lungs burned in reaction to something in the air, and rashes had erupted in a number of spots on his arms and legs. He involuntarily tensed and twitched from time to time, perhaps in want of muscle relaxants.

He attempted to draw a deep breath and cringed. “What’s that smell coming up from the hole? Something rotten? Garbage? It smells black and slippery … mold?”

“Lil’ bit of that. Probably growin’ lotsa germs down there, right? Anybody falls down that hole, I don’ want ’em comin’ back up.”

Old Fart put his palms on his temples but instantly worried that he might somehow tumble into the hole. He put one hand on the floor to steady himself. “We lost our chips in that fight, didn’t we? I’ll make it up to you, Kel. As soon as I’m able to …” He leaned forward, vomiting a torrent of alcohol down into the hole. He straightened his arms and arched his back, pushing away from the hole, but his stomach sent forth another blast.

“Shit, man!” Kel said. He swallowed and blinked, lowering his voice. “Stinkin’ up my whole place an’ shit. Damn.” He stood up and staggered toward the door.

“I’m so sorry,” Old Fart said. “You must be really sick, yourself. Golden people have modified abilities for blood purification. My system’s supposed to be able to filter out more than a traditional European bloodline like you evidently have.”

Kel laughed, swinging open the door. “Yeah, maybe you got a hopped-up liver or whatever, but sittin’ in an office every damned day made you weak. I can out-drink you any day, punk, jus’ like I can out-fight you any day.”

“Well, anyway,” Old Fart said. “I’ll still honor our deal. I’ll get to a machine as soon as I can … I’ll get some more chips to pay you for your hospitality. Then I’ll make my way back home, of course. And I’m sorry about making your room smell … even worse.”

Kel was peering into the hall, distracted. “S’all right. I hate the closed door, anyhow. Hate it. Like a cage. But even wit’ the hole I gotta have it kinda closed at night. I think now’s daytime, though.” He stepped over the hole and out into the hall. “Brian? Man, what you doin’? Since when you leave your door hangin’ open?”

There was no answer.

Old Fart looked to the window, which comprised a bizarre network of metal bars, nails, screws, and wood splinters, with bits of translucent plastic stuffed in between them. It did seem that there was some light coming through it. “Are you claustrophobic, Kel? Afraid of small spaces?”

Kel came back over the hole. He flicked his lighter and a tiny, feeble flame appeared, which he pointed at Old Fart. “Ain’t afraid of shit.” He bent down to a small dish half full of overused cooking oil with a piece of wire wrapped around a bit of rag serving as a wick. The lamp ignited, throwing violent orange patterns over the room’s tiny walls and giving off rancid smoke. Old Fart clenched his teeth as his stomach fluttered but nothing came up. Kel slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “Anyways, you wanna go home just ’cause we got rolled?”

Old Fart shook his head, belching silently. “No. I don’t want to go home. I would rather stay here, and experience more of what your life is like. I’ve already seen more excitement in the last several hours than I had in my whole life up until now …” He put his palms on his temples, as if holding his skull together. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m terrified to be here. But, you know, the problem with my wife back at home … it makes me sick when I think about it. She used to be so different before the reconditioning—”

Kel’s face contorted in disgust. “Ugh. Your wife’s a God-zombie?”

Old Fart nodded. “But I’ll go back. It’s what I have to do. And don’t worry about the money I promised. I’m good for it, Kel.”

“What the fuck you talking about, Old Fart? Look at this shit!” He gestured to the floor, where he was spreading out the items they had taken from the one attacker they had captured: a shirt with a big section of cloth cut out of it, a piece of unidentifiable metal twisted into a ball, half a meter of string, a pair of shoes that were more holes than material, and a terribly old piece of chewing gum. “We got all this together, man. Half this shit is yours!”

Kel shook his head. “Brian!” he called again. “Brian, man, you might’s well come in an’ meet my friend, Old Fart, here! What you doin’ over there, anyways?”

Again, no answer.

Kel shrugged. “Th’ fuck is his problem?” he said, stepping back over the hole. He rapped on the door with one bent finger. “Ay! What you—Brian?” Kel turned, his head pivoting to take in the whole hallway. “Brian?” Kel froze, staring down the hall toward the staircase.

“Kel?” said Old Fart. “What is it?”

“Not here,” Kel said. He stayed frozen. “But his door’s open.”

“Oh. Well, maybe he’ll be right back then.”

Kel pulled the neighboring door shut. He shook his head. “Nobody leaves their door open ’round here ’cept me,” he said. “An’ Brian, never. Really, really never.”

“You’re worried about your friend, then?” Old Fart asked as he stood, tastes of copper, iron, and acid rising in the back of his throat. His stomach lurched, threatening to explode again. Why had he gotten up?

Because anything Kel worries about would have to be a very bad thing.

Dok’s place:

“Prophet?” Eadie said. It came out as a whisper. A thought had made her cold and numb. She cleared her throat. “Prophet?” The lady next to him gently patted his arm, but he did not respond.

Eadie rose to her hands and knees and crawled across the floor, knocking his empty bottle of sodje out of the way. She took him by the shoulders. “Prophet!”

His eyes opened halfway from behind their veil of stringy hair.

“Who are the higher powers, or whatever you called them? Who did you mean?”

His face was slack. His eyes drooped. His lips were dry, but when they parted, his usual voice came out. “I believe I referred to those who claim to represent a higher power, General.”

“Yeah, them. Who did you mean? Could they be from the government? Might they be the police? The Feds?”

He nodded.

She looked at Dok. He shrugged.

“Prophet, why would the Feds look for me here?”

“Please do not lose faith in the boy, General. He is loyal to you, I am sure. But he did not think about the way the police work. He did not realize that they could trace his location from the implant.”

Her eyes met Dok’s. “Feds don’t come to the Zone. They never come here, right?”

Dok stared a moment. “For Clayton Ricker’s son they might. And anyway, yeah. I’ve heard that they are starting to come back around here these days, though I don’t know why. People have seen them walking around in their stretchy gray business suits, but they don’t seem to be stopping any crimes.”

Her breathing quickened. She closed her eyes. “Prophet, why didn’t you just tell me you thought the Feds were coming? Why all that ‘claim to represent’ stuff?”

“Forgive me, General, but in my experience telling unpleasant things directly to those in power seldom produces the desired result. Best to give all the pieces and let the recipient put them together—that way the listener believes the message more because it came from her own mind.”

Eadie groaned.

The Prophet cleared his throat. “General, if I may suggest one more thing?”

She nodded quickly, ignoring the pull from the stitches in her face. “Tell me straight this time—not just pieces, okay?”

“As you wish, General. It seems there is very little time. Too little for you to leave the premises. If you run out of the building, you risk meeting them on their way in.”

Eadie stared at the Prophet. An electric feeling flooded into her face, making her eyes sting and her mouth hang open. “Yes. That could really happen,” she muttered. She turned numbly toward Dok. A tear slowly worked its way down her cheek but she felt so disconnected from her body she was unable to lift her hand to wipe it away.

Dok flung open one of his cupboards, dumping some dried leaves into a small jar. “Take this upstairs to apartment five-seventeen. Mrs. Klaussen lives up there. Tell her I sent you up to check on her and that this is for her joint problem.

“You want me to administer medicine?”

“Her joint problem is routine old-lady pain; she’s fine. That’s just regular tea. Now go.”

Eadie headed for the door. Dok extended a hand to the Prophet, hauling him to his feet. “Take this fellow with you,” he said. “Something tells me the Feds wouldn’t get a lot of information from him, but still, it’s better not to risk it.” He snatched the knife from the spot where Lawrence had left it, pointing the handle at Eadie. “And take this.”

It was still smeared with her blood. She tucked the blade behind her apron, taking the Prophet by the hand and leading him up the stairwell. A loud set of footsteps echoed up from below.

(?)

Brian stood in the freezing acid rain. He had no coat, no umbrella. Tiny droplets trickled down his face, burning his eyes and his chapped lips. The last thing he remembered was going to bed.

He turned a slow circle, trying to figure out where he might be. Clearly it was somewhere in the Zone. The concrete had all been removed from the streets and sidewalks, and all the wood, glass, and metal had been removed from the buildings. But even in the Zone, most of the buildings still survived. Here they were mostly piles of rubble, and the ones left were missing walls.

He surveyed the buildings again, more closely this time. There had to be some familiar feature or identifying mark. He knew almost every part of the Zone. Every part, except for—

Every standing wall and piece of rubble was pockmarked with signs of gunfire. The fallen concrete was shattered into tiny pieces, its steel reinforcement rods removed.

It was darker now than it had been a minute ago. Brian ran his splinted hand up behind his back, reaching for his gun. It was not there. He took a few steps in a random direction, pivoting his head all around. Lightning stabbed down through the sky, making him squint. At his feet, a tooth and part of what looked like a knucklebone poked out of the toxic mud.

There could be no mistake. He was deep inside Fiend territory.