Imponign Ch. 04

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CHAPTER 04

The Retribution System

#

Caste Imponign

“In illa deliciae morantur.”

Deutercaste

Date of Creation: June 1st, 2175

Ability: Quasi-able

Gender: Femme-male

Birth-capable: No

Mean Height: 5’2″

Mean Weight: 85 lbs

Mean Intelligence: IQ 100

Mean Reaction Time: 173 ms

Mean Bone Mineral Density: T -2.2

Mean Cardiac Output: 3.4 L/min

The Compendium of Humanity Renewed

#

I lie in my bunk, contemplating the pandemonium in the auditorium.

I think of my so-called brother, Kaelos, and that wild look in his eyes. He was so desperate to find me, it makes me wonder why. I wanted to meet him too, but certainly not so much that I’d be willing to be electrocuted and wrestled into restraints. Perhaps he was just transposed more courageous and principled than I…

Or perhaps he had something to tell me…

There’s no way of knowing for sure now. There’s no way they’re going to let another debacle like that unfold. Taabia said the whole of Imponign Block was going into lockdown due to the intrusion. I have no doubt that today was the first and only time I’ll ever see him.

I try to remember his face. I wish I’d paid more attention to what he looked like. He was handsome enough, I think, despite that horrible look of frenzy and desperation on his face. Short black hair. A prominent nose. I remember the color of his eyes — deep brown… It saddens me that I don’t recall much more than that.

“Look at this one!” Vecordia’s top half drops down from her bunk like a python hanging from a jungle canopy. She’s holding a book — Children of Mars: A Guide to Caste Martilign.

Before leaving us to report back to Noonus, Taabia ordered one of those skinny, hairless, and androgynous castes — a Quantinign, she called them — to bring us some reading material so that Vecordia and I had something to do for the rest of the day. The Quanti breathed an indignant sigh, clearly not thrilled to be taking orders from an Imponign, and returned to Vecordia and me with a loathing frown and an armful of old books. Some of them were merely dusty, others looked so old the ink had all but faded from their covers.

Vecordia, ever since meeting Eiron, has been obsessed with learning everything she possibly can about Martiligns. She’s been combing through books for the past three hours for information on them. She holds now, for my viewing pleasure, an upside-down page depicting a near-nude Martilign posing over a roughly cut granite block. “What do you think?” she asks in her weird, airy voice.

I roll my eyes. This has to be the twelfth naked Marti she’s asked for my commentary on. “Groovy,” I sigh. The sarcasm is lost on her. She looks pleased with the response and retracts back up to her bunk. A moment later I hear the ripping of paper. I feel a little jealous that I wasn’t transposed half crazy like my new friend. This nightmare might just feel like a big exciting adventure then.

But the thoughts of my bother persist. Particularly, that phrase. I cannot remember anything about my old life — not my name, not my age, not what I looked like. Everything personal — everything that isn’t required for the operation of my new persona — was expunged during my transposition, such as it is for everyone of everycaste, as I was taught in the auditorium. But that phrase — Pedro Bay Double Patty. That is something special. Something personal. Something to hold on to. The more I linger on it, the more meaningful the words become.

I didn’t tell Taabia the profound effect those words had on me when she walked Vecordia and me back to our room. She’s proved herself not the person to talk to on matters concerning my old self.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and let myself sink into my bunk. I concentrate on the words.

Pedro Bay Double Patty…

Pedro Bay Double Patty…

With extra peri peri…

Some distant flame of memory within a desert storm flickers momentarily through the sands of my mind.

“Lenny’s!”

I gasp as I snap up in my bunk. “Lenny’s Burger on the Bay!” Vecordia drops down curiously.

“Who? Where? You’re being strange… Look at this one.” She holds down another page featuring another risque Marti.

I knock the book out of the way with the back of my hand. “A memory, Vecordia! A real, unique memory! I remembered something!”

Her eyes light up and she seems to lose interest in her educational Marti porn. She drops the book to the floor and slinks down to my bunk, naked and unashamed, as seems appropriate for her.

“How did you do it?” she asks. “I want to remember too.”

“Remember what that man was yelling in Kurtköy travesti the auditorium?” I ask. Her face contorts into an agitated frown. “He was mean!” she hisses. She blames him for cutting her time with Eiron short.

“Well, he was that brother I was telling you about — the one that’s me, but in another body!”

She scrunches up her nose as she tries to compute how I can be two people at once. There’s a purpling welt on her cheek from where she collided with a bench edge after losing her grip on Eiron. “You oughta not be such a bully, y’know,” she says disregarding the point I’m trying to make.

“His name’s Kaelos. He’s not literally me. And he wasn’t being mean, he was confused and scared and trying to find me. Point is — he remembered something from our past life that caused me to remember even more,” I try to explain.

“So?” She squints at me, trying to discern what I’m so excited about.

“So — we’re not lost, Vecordia! If we find more ways to bring back those memories of who we were, maybe we don’t have to be slaves!” Wishful thinking, I realize. But at the moment I’m just thrilled that, for the first time in my very short life, I have a sense of purpose.

Vecordia bites her lower lip as she processes my words. She idly runs her fingertip in a figure eight around her nipples. I suspect her modesty made up a significant part of that portion of her archive that was lost during transposition.

“I have no brother. How do I remember?” she asks after a while.

“Well… I remembered because I was exposed to something from my past life. So, by that logic, if we expose you to something from before — something you have a personal connection to — perhaps you’ll remember something about it. Do you have any books about the twenty-first century up there?”

I climb up after Vecordia to her bunk. She has quickly turned the small space into her own little bird’s nest. Books are scattered all over, the bedsheets are a mess, and I spot a few curios whose only conceivable reason for being here is theft. Half tucked under her pillow I spot a stack of pages she’s determined to be too valuable to lose, ripped from various sources, each depicting a Marti she’s determined to be attractive.

Vecordia picks through her unordered collection of books, trying to find one with references to the old world. “This one?” she asks, holding up a warped and color-faded magazine that reads PopZeit June 2055 in stylized yellow across the top. Below that are various sub-headlines, such as ‘The UN’s Secret AI Overlord — Fact or Bullsh*t?’, ‘The USD Finally Drops to the Value of One Pistachio’, and ‘Stephanie Ballard’s Second Affair-Child!?!?’

“Perfect!” I say. The two of us huddle together as we analyze each page of the dusty text. Some of the pages are so brittle they flake apart when we try to turn them. We read through pop-culture news and scrutinize the faces of dead celebrities, trying to find anything that might spark life into a dormant memory hidden away, deep in our subconsciouses. Halfway through our third run-through, I ask Vecordia if she’s remembering anything.

“I wanna go back to my Martiligns,” she replies uninterestedly.

“Me neither,” I concede.

I climb back down to my bunk, lie on my back with my fingers interlaced upon my chest, and fall asleep to the infrequent sound of tearing paper as Vecordia discovers more eye-catching Marties.

#

In my dream, I walk down Granada Promenade on an overcast afternoon. To my left, Pedro Bay laps against the boulders of the seawall with minor turbulence as a coastal storm swells a few dozen miles west over the Pacific. To my right, a cyclist glides quickly past, trying to make it home before landfall.

I, however, feel no such urgency. I can see I still have at least twenty minutes before the darkest of the clouds are overhead, and Lenny’s is only a three-minute walk along the bay from the parking lot.

The humble little restaurant sits between a skate store and an Asian massage parlor. The two square yellow umbrellas that cover the outside tables ripple at their edges, warning of the coming winds.

I push through the door and above a bell chimes. As usual, the small dining area is empty, as is the way I time my post-lunchtime visits to my favorite bay-side establishment.

“‘Ey, Rapunzel,” Lenny’s heavy non-rhotic accent acknowledges my presence with a friendly jeer as he works the grill behind a pass-through window leading to his muggy kitchen. “You come all the way down that tower for anothah greasy one?”

“Only place in this city worth the trip, my friend,” I call back as I pull out a chair at my favorite booth. It’s the one in the corner between the two windows Lenny keeps ajar to prevent to place from smelling too starchy. With the storm rolling in, the breeze is especially pleasant and carries the faint aromatic scent of sea salt to combat the odor of unbattered fish and expired vegetable Kurtköy travestileri oil.

“The usual?” he calls.

“With extra peri peri,” I confirm.

“Peri peri on a beef burger…” he mutters disapprovingly to himself. “Y’know, if I had a suit like what you got I wouldn’t be eatin’ nothin’ with extra anything. It’d pay my rent for a month and then some… Tony! Get the umbrellas, will ya, they’s about to go in the ocean!” Lenny’s son appears from the kitchen door and hurries outside to wrestle with the now-shaking umbrellas.

Seven minutes pass and Tony runs my order out and places it with a chipper smile on my table before rushing back into the kitchen to help his father clean the filter on the deep fryer. I look down with delight at the best burger in all of Sacramento.

Twin perfectly fried chuck-mince patties with zero filler. Grilled onion, slightly charred. A firm but sweet slice of beetroot. Stemless, crisp, and green lettuce leaves. A slice of sharp cheddar. Two ripe tomato slices, cut at the ideal fifth-inch thickness. And, my signature addition — a thick layering of spicy peri peri sauce. All between two golden brioche buns.

After I’ve finished my meal, I tip Lenny the usual 150%. Like always, he objects at first, but with the collapse of the US dollar and his family in mind, he soon relents with a humble nod.

I make it back to my car just as the first heavy droplets thump against the timber promenade.

“Welcome back, Mr. R,” my AI chauffeur greets me from the dash. “Where would you like to go?”

“Back to work,” I reply as I check my suit in the sunshade mirror for any rogue peri peri. The shade is tilted at an angle just short of reflecting my face.

“En route for 574 Sol Rojo Thoroughfare.”

#

Eiron arrives alone the next morning to escort us to our second etiquette class. Vecordia runs at the man with open arms at such speed that I swear I see the massive man tilt from the impact. He groans as he peels her from his waist, then looks at me with a frown. “Did I do something to deserve this?”

“It must be that cheery smile of yours,” I joke. Eiron just rolls his eyes and leads us out of the room.

We reach the auditorium to find the large display still out of commission. A mixed group of Deutercaste work at its base, repairing the damaged portion of the screen. They’ve already replaced the cracked segment without any visible seams, but it looks like there is internal damage still in need of work.

We arrive early enough to have our pick of seats, though we still head to our original spot up the far back. Leppia gives me a sour look as I pass her on my way up the stairs which sends a shiver down me. I wonder how much she knows about Kaelos and me — specifically, what our relationship is.

We sit through another drawn-out lecture about the world we must productively inhabit. We go over more of the castes and their respective duties, advantages, limitations, and personalities. While the suave Virilign is nowhere to be seen — probably recovering from a Marti-sized palm print bruised into his chest — Leppia still calls down a couple of us for a demonstration. Fortunately, neither of whom is me. Leppia instructs the first girl on the demeanor and body language she must adopt when in the presence of Proto and Magnacastes, having her bow her head deferentially and exposing herself for intercourse in several erotic ways. The second girl, Leppia gives a large silicone member representing the extreme of what we might be expected to fit in our asses. The thing is so massive it droops across the girl’s shaking forearms. She’s a good sport and makes ridiculous facial expressions and holds the thing as if it’s an attacking anaconda, drawing a few chuckles from the class. I appreciate her putting a positive spin on what I can only imagine to be a death sentence should someone actually try to fit something of that size into one of us.

I find myself dipping in and out of much of the theoretical teachings. I keep getting lost in thought, pondering last night’s dream. Or is memory more appropriate? How much of it, if any, could be true — could be an artifact unintentionally transposed into my new brain? Was I really a man? Did my surname really begin with an R? Did I really frequently travel far out of my way for a hamburger? So many details were so specific. Did Lenny and Tony really exist? And that address… Everything felt so familiar — so visceral — during the dream. But as soon as I woke up that sense left me.

Every now and then there is a silent commotion between Vecordia and Eiron to my left. I turn my head to see him holding her hand away from his lap, her little wrist pinched between his large index finger and thumb. “She keeps trying to… touch me,” he grumbles as if he thinks I can do anything to control the mad girl.

I didn’t mention my dream to Vecordia. I don’t think she’s unintelligent by any means, but I definitely Travesti kurtköy don’t see her offering me any useful insight. And, of course, I can’t tell Taabia. Yet I still have an urge to tell someone. Perhaps Eiron? I don’t know him well enough. He might just grunt, or, he might report me and have something horrible done to me.

I feel coldly isolated.

Suddenly, the great screen behind Leppia flashes back to life. It displays an emblem of a black eye at the tip of a long needle before changing over to a home screen of a fluffy and very obese white cat with beetle-like marble eyes. It takes Leppia a moment to realize everyone’s attention has drifted before turning around. “Oh… splendid,” she says quietly. She turns back to us. “Due to yesterday’s debacle, our class was cut short before I could explain perhaps one of the most crucial elements of your new lives.” She picks up a pad from the lectern that seems to be the source of the larger screen’s image. She handles the device with agitation as she tries to get the auditorium’s screen to respond to her input on the pad. “That’s Ozymandias, by the way.” We all look again at the genetic abomination of a cat. “There we go!”

The screen changes to a diagram of one of the Arbiter’s axons towering over a horde of simplistic human shapes. An eye is pictured at the tip of the tower and casts a red triangle of vision over the many rows below it. The people are broken up into multiple tiers, which are then further subdivided into smaller groups, clearly representing the castes of humanity. Only, there is a fourth category below Deutercaste we haven’t heard about yet.

“Observe — the Retribution System,” Leppia declares. “As you can see, humanity is made complete by a fourth caste. A caste seldom talked about. A caste most good citizens would like to think does not exist.

Leppia gestures a palm up to an Observer hovering with absolute silence in the back corner of the auditorium, between a banner and a speaker unit. No one even noticed it come in. Or has it been here the entire time? The glassy orb watches us without soul.

“There is a reason The Arbiter keeps an eye on us all,” Leppia continues. “A reason that contributes equally to the prosperity of our world as does the efficiencies of the caste configuration.” I feel a sense of unease as I look up at the Observer. Even though we are all in it’s periphery, it feels as if it’s staring at me personally. “For Observers do not just see and hear.” Leppia struts the rounded edge of the stage as she explains. “They also capture.” There are a few murmurs throughout the class as Impos try to make sense of that claim. Leppia gives plenty of time for our minds to wander before she elaborates. “When you are within line of sight of an Observer, they do not just see your form and your color. They see further — they see your muscle tissue, your bone, your blood vessels, and veins. They see past your skull. They see your brain — every structure, every neurological circuit, every synapse, they see and they record. A thousand times per day your mind is captured. Every day The Arbiter creates an up-to-date archive of you.

“For there will come a day when your corpus will cease function, and your mind will die. But you will not be free of this world. The Arbiter will consider your behavior — the good and the bad, and it will hold your archive accountable. You will be transposed back into this world. Most of you, again as Imponign. Those of you who perform your part, and behave as you should, may produce archives better suited and deserving of a higher caste — you may return a level higher, a Martilign or a Fertilign perhaps.

“But those of you,” her tone sinks into a foreboding drawl, “who do not adhere, who disobey and refuse your obligations as Imponign, will find yourselves returning in neither Proto nor Deutercaste.” She gestures to the lowest tier on the screen, where The Arbiter’s cone of vision shifts to the deepest crimson. “Vindicaste is where those who have refused to serve humanity willingly go. Those who believe themselves exempt from the burdens required to keep our great civilization functional. They are made useful in other ways — as test subjects for experimental treatments and surgeries — as biological surrogates in aircar crash testing — as pawns in televised games of death.”

The screen changes to videos of some of the most confronting sights imaginable. We watch as dejected, malnourished, and rag-wearing Vindicaste are blown apart by prototype weaponry, injected with malicious pathogens, and forced to murder one another in semi-sincere warfare waged to resolve disagreements between higher castes.

“Once you are in Vindicaste, you can not get out,” Leppia goes on. “The Arbiter will not consider you. Observers will pass you by. You will be coveted by the sadists of the world. There are limits on the cruelty one may inflict on a Deutercaste before The Arbiter considers it an infraction. A Vindicaste, however, can be peeled apart without The Arbiter batting a glassy black eye. You will be used and destroyed, and transposed anew again, without hope, without evolution to your psyche, from the same stale archive that has proved itself unworthy of anything better, for as long as the axons stand.”

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