PREVIEW: True Freedom
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| Frank Creed's short story "True Freedom" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
Read more about the author, Frank Creed |
My nightshift counterpart logged-in and began tooling his way through the pallet of oily
metal sheets. I took my soft plastic coffee/ stew cup and crossed the concrete floor to
the turnstile. My legs and arches shrieked a few decades older than my twenty-four
years. These final three hours, the last quarter of this eight to eight dayshift, passed
like a Chevy-Geo Aphid firing on three cylinders. Yeah, that bad.
Days ago, our ink-stamp time clock had been replaced with a thirty-year-old barcode
reader. We all had new I.D. cards zip-strapped around our wrists. Sadly, like all citizens,
we had sub-dermal bio-chips in the backs of left hands that contained personal criminal
and financial histories, but the Ash Corporation was too cheap to pay for the hardware
with which to read them.
Whenever Ash upgraded equipment in their factories or offices, maintenance teams
installed the outdated recycled hardware in their contracted slave-labor Rehab Wards.
Wire and super-glue kept our equipment and tools together. The rest got piled in a
corner for shipment to Ash’s recycling division. If something hurt production it got
fixed. For anything else, pass the duct-tape.
We lined up single file at the turnstile. I worked a station far from the exit door so only
three workers got here after me, but the pecking order had me at the back of the line.
Murderers went first, rapists and mental patients next, and Fundis last. There were
three of us Fundamentalists in dayshift metal-shop and I was the youngest. That meant
I always lined-up dead last.
Our filthy orange nylon coveralls rustled as each inmate shifted from leg to leg in an
attempt to settle their weight on the least sore limb. In preparation for the seven-
block walk in late winter’s cold, I rolled down worn and torn flannel sleeves, covering
my scarred, scabbed, blood- and oil-smeared forearms. Nylon coverall sleeves unrolled
to cover the flannel. I snapped tight the too-short cuffs that left my wrists bare but
shut out cold drafts. My sleeves were the only fabric that still glared prison-orange. Oil
and dirt darkly waterproofed the rest of me.
Bleep after bleep after bleep found me another step closer to the bar code reader. I
fished into a pocket for my grimy stocking cap. As long as the head and feet stayed
warm and dry, winter’s cold could be faced. After having two caps stolen in my first
week, bronchitis taught me to pocket it at the front door.
My turn. It took five swipes of my I.D. card before the reader finally bleeped. A
mechanical voice announced “Allan Page, account balance, negative eight hundred
seventy-four dollars and twenty-five cents.” The turnstile latch clicked open.
Metal-team hadn’t been paid in three months, but in order for us to buy food, our
accounts worked on credit. Wasn’t it smarter to gain interest on that money rather
than paying us $1.50/ hour? As long as Ash Corporation’s metal fittings were assembled,
that was the important thing.
Outside the metal-shop bars I headed for the men’s room. I didn’t feel like company on
the walk back to the stackhouse so after washing and rubbing my hands under the
warm-air dryer, I passed near the turnstile on my way to the exit. A sickly-sweet voice
spawned inside my own skull. Identify.
My blood iced. “RW9-36-6379, Mother Mistress.” I spoke aloud although there was no
need. MM’s brain wave sensors could hear me think just as I heard her without using
my ears.
Referenced and verified. Your team has left the building. Why are you not with them?
Do you need some of mommy’s discipline?
“No!” Her voice alone implied incomprehensible pain and horror. She could pluck at my
nervous system like a harpist. Every time my ribcage virtually crushed and caved in,
every time finger bones seemingly snapped one by one, it amazed me that a human
could survive such pain. Were the trauma real I’d probably have passed out, but MM
had somehow figured a way around that.
metal sheets. I took my soft plastic coffee/ stew cup and crossed the concrete floor to
the turnstile. My legs and arches shrieked a few decades older than my twenty-four
years. These final three hours, the last quarter of this eight to eight dayshift, passed
like a Chevy-Geo Aphid firing on three cylinders. Yeah, that bad.
Days ago, our ink-stamp time clock had been replaced with a thirty-year-old barcode
reader. We all had new I.D. cards zip-strapped around our wrists. Sadly, like all citizens,
we had sub-dermal bio-chips in the backs of left hands that contained personal criminal
and financial histories, but the Ash Corporation was too cheap to pay for the hardware
with which to read them.
Whenever Ash upgraded equipment in their factories or offices, maintenance teams
installed the outdated recycled hardware in their contracted slave-labor Rehab Wards.
Wire and super-glue kept our equipment and tools together. The rest got piled in a
corner for shipment to Ash’s recycling division. If something hurt production it got
fixed. For anything else, pass the duct-tape.
We lined up single file at the turnstile. I worked a station far from the exit door so only
three workers got here after me, but the pecking order had me at the back of the line.
Murderers went first, rapists and mental patients next, and Fundis last. There were
three of us Fundamentalists in dayshift metal-shop and I was the youngest. That meant
I always lined-up dead last.
Our filthy orange nylon coveralls rustled as each inmate shifted from leg to leg in an
attempt to settle their weight on the least sore limb. In preparation for the seven-
block walk in late winter’s cold, I rolled down worn and torn flannel sleeves, covering
my scarred, scabbed, blood- and oil-smeared forearms. Nylon coverall sleeves unrolled
to cover the flannel. I snapped tight the too-short cuffs that left my wrists bare but
shut out cold drafts. My sleeves were the only fabric that still glared prison-orange. Oil
and dirt darkly waterproofed the rest of me.
Bleep after bleep after bleep found me another step closer to the bar code reader. I
fished into a pocket for my grimy stocking cap. As long as the head and feet stayed
warm and dry, winter’s cold could be faced. After having two caps stolen in my first
week, bronchitis taught me to pocket it at the front door.
My turn. It took five swipes of my I.D. card before the reader finally bleeped. A
mechanical voice announced “Allan Page, account balance, negative eight hundred
seventy-four dollars and twenty-five cents.” The turnstile latch clicked open.
Metal-team hadn’t been paid in three months, but in order for us to buy food, our
accounts worked on credit. Wasn’t it smarter to gain interest on that money rather
than paying us $1.50/ hour? As long as Ash Corporation’s metal fittings were assembled,
that was the important thing.
Outside the metal-shop bars I headed for the men’s room. I didn’t feel like company on
the walk back to the stackhouse so after washing and rubbing my hands under the
warm-air dryer, I passed near the turnstile on my way to the exit. A sickly-sweet voice
spawned inside my own skull. Identify.
My blood iced. “RW9-36-6379, Mother Mistress.” I spoke aloud although there was no
need. MM’s brain wave sensors could hear me think just as I heard her without using
my ears.
Referenced and verified. Your team has left the building. Why are you not with them?
Do you need some of mommy’s discipline?
“No!” Her voice alone implied incomprehensible pain and horror. She could pluck at my
nervous system like a harpist. Every time my ribcage virtually crushed and caved in,
every time finger bones seemingly snapped one by one, it amazed me that a human
could survive such pain. Were the trauma real I’d probably have passed out, but MM
had somehow figured a way around that.
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
THE CLAPPER JANGLED TWO merciless steel bells like a
mechanism from an old time fire station. The noise signaled
eight PM, and shift change in Rehabilitation Ward Nine of the
Chicago Metroplex. Not exactly cutting edge technology for
2036, but little in Rehab Ward Nine was.
mechanism from an old time fire station. The noise signaled
eight PM, and shift change in Rehabilitation Ward Nine of the
Chicago Metroplex. Not exactly cutting edge technology for
2036, but little in Rehab Ward Nine was.
| If you enjoy Frank Creed's short stories, look for his new novel in the same cyberpunk setting . . . Flashpoint: Part One of The Underground Release date June 2007 More info at www.frankcreed.com |
