Read Online Periphery by Lynne Jamneck - Free Book Online Page B

universe. Ishtartu was inspired by the question: How do you suppose prostitutes would work—because you know they’d find a way!—in a restrictive theocracy? Plus, I’ve always found the idea of sacred prostitutes hot.

Mind Games
By Tracey Shellito
    “Come to me…”
    Of course I went. Legislation has made telepaths little better than slaves. Branded invisibly. Every child tested. A subcutaneous chip, fitted while the skull is soft, buried so deep within the brain-matter that nothing can remove it. Hard wired to the nervous system. The Mark of Cain. Proof that you can download someone’s thoughts. I can’t go within fifty feet of a secure room without alarms blaring. That doesn’t leave many places. Death might be preferable.
    I made the mistake of expressing those sympathies. I was already under lock and key. Now I’m on suicide watch. If my vitals fall below a given point someone comes to intervene. I’m allowed outside only for the job. Freedom through service. If you call that freedom.
    I lagged. Yes, I wanted out. Who doesn’t? I haven’t breathed fresh air for two months. But when they want you, a cell’s better.
    Eventually the headache from the chip drove me to my knees, then the door. I pounded wood till my fists bled, my head exploding with pain. When the warden opened up it was all I could do to raise my battered hands, show him the teleprinter in my wrist flashing its demands.
    I dragged myself out, started down the corridor. With simple acquiescence, moving in the right direction, the pain lessened. I wiped blood from my nose. Once you’re got you stayed got.
    I cleaned up in a windowless bathroom while they confirmed receipt of the message. She sent a car and clothes. When I saw what they’d laid out in the windowless adjoining office I almost wept. A man’s suit, shirt, underwear, carefully tailored to hide curves. Even a tie. She’d sent a barber too. I sat on a stool, observed from three sides, while they washed and trimmed me. To prevent me catching up one of the glittering objects that might have ended my pain, set me free.
    There is no privacy or allowance for modesty once they’d decided you’ll kill yourself. They watched me strip out of the age-softened denim shirt and jeans, wash, apply the lotions and potions polite society expects, then climb into street clothes.
    “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you was a bloke,” an officer said, unlocking the door to release me to my handlers.
    The warden, who’d never so much as glanced at me, frowned and checked the room. Looking for the woman he’d let in. Wondering who this tall, pale skinned, crop haired, sharp dressed man was.
    No one touched me as we walked through the echoing corridors.
    The air outside was damp and chill; redolent of burning leaves. Autumn. I stood, just breathing, remembering the smell of freedom. Buildings clawed the heavens, a narrow strip of blue between. Part of me wanted to run back inside, where it was safe. Part of me exulted in the crisp, cold weather.
    The car was beautiful. A Mercedes Air. Pre-programmed. They ushered me inside, sealed the door and stood back. Job done.
    Custom fitted jets cut in, lifting to the permitted height in line with air traffic regs. Flight path confirmed, GPS took over, speeding me to my destination.
    I was barely out of sight of my prison when, in the clear blister of the windows, panic gripped me. I averted my eyes from too much space, too much sky, searching instead for a way to prize open the control panel. If I could cross the right wires I’d be free. I couldn’t imagine where I’d go, but not to try was somehow a betrayal.
    “Don’t.”
    I ignored her. There must be a camera. I didn’t have time to find and blind it. The control panel looked molded. It couldn’t be. It was stainless steel. There had to be—an edge! If I wrenched the handle from the glove compartment, maybe I could…
    Fuck! The pain was a knife through my head. Don’t let me pass out