I am serialising my dystopian/retro-futuristic sci-fi story here. Here is the fifth chapter, titled “The Spy”
All chapters can be found here.
I will be adding a new chapter every Friday (when I don’t forget, sorry!).
Chapter 05 – The Spy
She awoke on the floor of the living room. She stared, blinking, at the puddle of vomit before her. She pushed herself up, and for a moment, as her head throbbed with the agony of the hangover, she thought that it had all been a dream, and that she had imagined the whole thing.
Her eyes drifted to the left, where they rested on the device, sitting on the sofa. And she realised that it was not a dream, but a nightmare. A living nightmare.
She sat, wretched-looking, her face streaked with mascara, the side of her head and hair wet with vomit, at the device.
Activate the device, lay the documents one by one on the floor, then press the button, and it will copy them.
She gagged, suddenly panicking, and leapt up. She grasped the device, suddenly finding some clarity. She had to hide it, but where?
She spun, looking for somewhere, anywhere. She hurried to the kitchen, opening the bare cupboards, looking for somewhere to hide the thing that she was sure would doom her.
Above the stove was a cupboard. She reached up, flinging the doors open. There was a box that had once contained bottles of Kantary-branded cleaning products. She grabbed the box, put the device inside, put the box back, and slammed the doors shut.
What the fuck is happening? she thought, wiping her wet eyes, pacing the small kitchen. She suddenly froze. She turned, looking at the bowl beside the sink filled with lengths of red string, a look of sheer panic on her face.
She ran to the front door, opening it a crack, and glimpsing out. There was no red string tied to the latch. She slammed the door shut, suddenly gasping for breath, and pressed against the wall.
She looked around. An empty bottle of brandy lay on its side on the floor. An ashtray lay beside it, with several cigarette butts and ash scattered on the floor. In the middle of the room was a puddle of vomit.
She suddenly became aware of herself, wiping her cheeks, straightening her dress, trying to appear more in control.
“Clean…” she said, vacantly, and then picked up the bottle and ashtray. She went to the kitchen and began washing the dishes. She worked robotically and silently, her face emotionless. She filled a bucket with water and went to the living room, where she scrubbed the polycrete floor.
She tidied her bedroom, putting away the clothes, making the bed, and emptying the ashtrays. She swept the apartment, and when she was finished, the place was neat and tidy. She showered, washing her grimy face and red eyes, and then dressed.
She had hoped that by cleaning, she would think of what she would do.
She lit a cigarette and walked to the window, and looked out onto the dirty street below.
She saw old-timers struggling through the cold, children huddled in doorways, and a pair of Milpol androids strolling through the streets.
They were out there, watching her.
“If you try to run, we will kill you,” she heard him say.
She turned away from the window and walked across the room, stopping, suddenly realising she had nowhere to go. She may as well stand here and think about everything, just as well as in another room.
When he comes, she will tell him what has happened. He will understand. He will be pleased that I have told him, and that he can trust me. I will tell him everything, how I went out to have a drink, and that I was feeling lonely, and that the man came up to me, and…your body will be dumped far from here, out on the prairies.
She puffed on her cigarette.
If I run, I die. If I tell the truth, I die. So what must I do?
When I have worn him out and he is sleeping soundly, I will take the documents from his attaché case and lay them one by one out on the floor. Then, I will activate the device, press the button and copy them. When he leaves, I will leave the latch unlocked, and the other man, who didn’t want to kill me, will return to collect the device…and it will be my little secret, and no one will ever know.
She spent the next few days completely alone, smoking cigarettes, worrying and obsessively alternating between staring out the window, looking for the men who were watching her, checking for a red string tied to the latch, and compulsively cleaning, until the evening of the third day, when there was a knock on her door—a stiff, hard knock.
The thing she was so desperately worried about happening was suddenly going to happen, and she panicked, not sure if she could go through with it.
She gulped back some brandy and went to the door.
“Who is there?” she said, as firmly as she could.
“Milpol. Open up,” came the stiff, hard voice of authority.
She clicked the latch, opening the door. A man, a junior Milpol officer, stood outside the door.
“Get ready,” he said, his face stiff and hard. “You are coming with me.”
“Why…?” she said. “What is happening?”
Did they know about the men and the device?
He lifted his chin, eyeing her.
“The Captain has ordered your presence. I am told to inform you to ‘wear the new things’.”
“Where am I going?” she said, and it suddenly seemed as though the world was shrinking, and the walls were closing in on her.
“Get ready,” said the Milpol officer, his voice curt, stepping into the apartment. “And quickly.”
She turned, mentally reeling from everything that was happening and the speed at which it was unfolding. She did her make-up and hair, dressed in the new lingerie, stockings, a short black dress, stilettos, and her fur coat. She walked to the door where the Milpol officer was waiting, and then left with him.
They climbed the 30 flights to the roof, where a Milpol patrol copter waited. She was led to the open side door, where her Milpol officer escort placed a hand on her buttocks, smirking and squeezing as he helped her into the machine. The Milpol officer sat opposite her, smoking a cigarette and eyeing her thighs, which were revealed by her short dress.
The craft powered up and lifted from the roof; the door gunner hunched over the cannon on the side. The copter banked, flying out over the nighttime ghetto.
The copter climbed and flew above the towers. Below the lights of the city twinkled and sparkled, making the home of the slaves look quite beautiful…for a moment.
The copter descended and circled a landing pad, then touched down. She was helped out and followed the Milpol officer to a club called Rascals in the heart of the ghetto’s red-light district.
Rascals, with its lurid red, flashing neon signs advertising ‘Topless Waitresses’ and ‘Girls! Girls! Girls!’ was a cabaret club, and one of the captain’s favourite haunts. He liked to come here, drink brandy cocktails, smoke cigars, leer at the naked women, with his mistress on his arm.
Inside Rascals, the atmosphere was dimly lit, with smoke hanging in hazy clouds. A band was playing a brassy number while a woman performed a slow striptease on a stage.
She was escorted to a booth, where the captain and a few other Milpol officers were seated with their mistresses.
A waitress, nude except for her underwear and heels, was at the table, leaning in and placing drinks. She saw the captain’s perfectly manicured hand resting on the waitress’s exposed buttocks, an inch of her flesh tightly pinched between a soft, plump finger and thumb.
The men were all middle-aged, plain-looking, smoking cigars, and dressed in Milpol uniforms. The women were young, alluring, and beautiful, smoking cigarettes, and wearing short black dresses and plush fur coats.
“About bloody time!” snapped the captain when he saw her.
Her face was looking blankly at him, his hand groping the waitress, when she suddenly remembered the performance and flashed a brilliant, seductive smile.
“Sorry, darling,” she said, pushing past the waitress and into the booth. “But I wanted to look my best for you.”
She kissed him, like a lover, her hand automatically sliding to his inner thigh, caressing him.
“Brandy cocktail,” she said to the waitress, flashing her a petulant look and lighting a cigarette. “And make it snappy!”
* * *
The doors to the cupboard above the stove silently opened, and the Kantary cleaning products box was lifted down.
The captain was sleeping soundly, full of brandy cocktails, and fucked.
She lifted the device out and silently moved to the living room. She found his attaché case, unclipped it, and lifted out a stack of files.
She laid them on the floor, opened the file, pressed the device’s activation button, held it above the page, and pressed it again. There was a sudden flash of light that startled her, filling the room with a bright blue light. She dropped the device onto the hard floor, making a clattering noise.
She knelt in silence, holding her breath, waiting for him to emerge, groggily demanding to know what the noise was, but there was no stirring from the bedroom.
She crept back to the bedroom, peering into the gloom. She heard a drunken snore, pulled the door up and returned to the living room.
She continued, copying each page of each file until she came to one with “TOP SECRET – SECPOL + MILPOL LIASON EYES ONLY” stamped on the front. She couldn’t read, so she didn’t know this. She opened the file and copied the pages.
She found, at the bottom of the stack of files, a brochure with a smiling middle-aged couple on the front cover. Between them was a dog, its tongue hanging from its mouth, and it seemed to her that the animal was smiling too.
She flicked through the pages and saw photos of animals, with numbers and words. There were parrots, cats, ponies, dogs, goats, and all manner of small animals.
She didn’t know it, but it was a brochure for genetically engineered pets that could be ordered, by those with a permit, and delivered in hibernation to wherever the buyer might be in the galaxy.
She didn’t know whether she should copy this as well, so she did, copying each page methodically, and when she was finished, she placed the files and brochure back in the case, clipped it shut, and then put the device back in the box, which she put back in the cupboard, which she silently closed.
She sneaked back into the bedroom, climbing back under the blanket, and thought, What have I done?
* * *
She walked into the bedroom dressed in her silk robe, carrying a cup of coffee. He was still asleep, looking dead. She placed the coffee on the bedside table and gently roused him.
He woke hungover and in a foul mood. He snapped at her, telling her to run him a shower. She did as she was told and was instructed to join him and wash him.
After washing him, he demanded sex and was rough with her. He then dismissed her to prepare his breakfast. She dressed herself in her robe and shakily prepared a breakfast of tinned meat, crackers, and powdered eggs.
She helped him dress and put on his boots, and then sat, drinking a coffee and smoking a cigarette as he sat opposite her, eating and slurping coffee.
“I am going to get a pet,” he suddenly announced.
“What is a pet?” she said, unaware that such a thing existed.
He put a cracker topped with a slice of pink meat and a heaping of sloppy eggs into his mouth. She sat, watching him, smoking her cigarette, hearing the crunching and squelching and chewing, and swallowing as he ate. He slurped his coffee.
He unclipped his attaché case and pulled out the brochure, opening it at a page with images of variously coloured cats, which he showed her. A wondrous, content smile appeared on his face, like a father holding a newborn child for the first time.
“A pet is an animal that a person keeps.”
“Why?”
He prepared and ate another cracker and slurped more coffee.
“A pet, my dear, is an animal a person buys, that they keep, for their amusement. Having a pet is considered quite a social statement. I am working on an important assignment at the moment, and I expect that I will be getting a promotion and will be able to apply for a permit to keep a pet.”
She thought about what had just happened, how he had forced himself on her. Normally, he was entirely passive during sex, lazily leaving her to do all of the hard work, but sometimes, he was violent with her. Degraded her. Hurt her. And today was one of those days.
“I think I will get a cat…I have seen a genetic engineered species with extended longevity and hardiness in a brochure…” continued the captain, but she was no longer listening.
I am a pet, she suddenly realised. Until now, she hadn’t found the words to describe her situation, and now she had. I am an animal, and he owns me, for his amusement.
And she puffed her cigarette, and sipped her coffee, watching him, and she suddenly didn’t feel so guilty about what she had done, and smiled as the captain waffled on about short hair versus long hair breeds of cat.
* * *
He had left an hour ago, and the apartment latch was unlocked when she heard the door open. She moved from the kitchen, and he was standing there, looking sheepish.
She retrieved the device and went to him. He took it, then stood in silence.
“You should go,” she said.
He nodded, and turned, then stopped. He turned back to her.
“You should go,” she said again, with finality.
He went to say something, then stopped himself. He took a small blaster from his belt and put it in her hand, closing her fingers around it.
“In case…you need it,” he said, and smiled weakly, and then left.
She locked the door and gasped, collapsing to the floor, sobbing and clasping the blaster against her chest. The performance was over.