Post by jh1980 on Dec 9, 2007 12:50:53 GMT -1
Title: [Untitled, work in progress]
Theme: Art
Genre: Cyberpunk (Dystopian Sci-Fi Gothic)
Rating: 18
Feedback: Welcome, public.
Warnings: Psychological horror, some sexual references.
Notes: Inspired by H.R. Giger artwork (see: i39.photobucket.com/albums/e187/JH1980/h_r_20giger20-2009.jpg Warning – NSFW; i39.photobucket.com/albums/e187/JH1980/BirthMachine.jpg ; i39.photobucket.com/albums/e187/JH1980/hr_giger_dreads.jpg ) and the British Sci-Fi tradition, specifically Orwell’s 1984, Huxley’s Brave New World, and similar works.
[Preamble] “The year is, or we are told it is, 2050. England, my homeland, is a satellite state of the Oceanic Empire, ruled from New Detroit. Scotland, which gained final and bloody independence in 2020, is now part of the Greater Eurasia. The Scottish act of secession, it is told by our Noble Leader, was the act which not only dissolved the Union of Great Britain, but also precipitated the events which led to the seemingly endless conflict between the two powers, Oceania and Eurasia. All officially published evidence backs this up, though none of it seems older than a decade. Meanwhile much of the rest of the planet, it appears, has returned to a bucolic, or as the Leader puts it, “misdeveloped” state. Sometimes I wish that I could experience these places, but such thoughts are dangerous. After my grandfather’s encounter with the Ministry of Love (Minilove), he was never the same. His last words to me were that I should take all due precautions never to feel love – by which I mean “love,” as opposed to the Newspeak meaning, “hate.” My tears mocked him as he slipped from my life. I am in danger – every man is in danger, who dwells in this developed world, this is what we are told, and therefore it is what we know. It is for our safety that the Noble Leader rules with guiding palms. I know another danger too. I love a girl, a radical student. She was caught by the State Department while dispersing “seditious antitruths,” and her trial is today. She told me to forget her, in a note passed to one of her comrades. Yet I cannot. I must bear witness, observe her fate, and if I can, save her from harm. It is what Winston would have done for Julia, until the Ministry broke him. Perhaps things are worse now. Yet I must, for all that is good in humanity, do what I can. If this scroll is found, I am a dead man anyway. Yours for peace, solidarity, and truth, Leon Salvador Smith.”
---
The Judge slammed his gavel upon the desk. “Katja Horovitz!” he bellowed, his righteous ire reverberating around the cold, metallic courtroom. “You have been convicted under the gracious laws of the Noble Leader, of the heinous crime of High Treason! As a woman of child-bearing age, the state sees fit not to execute you, however instead you shall serve the Noble Leader’s purpose until such time as your body is no longer of use to the state. Thereafter, a Disciplinary Panel shall assess whether your mind is suitable for a return to civil society and service of the state. Take her away!” he motioned to the guards with these closing words. The justice of the Noble Leader was absolute. No appeals, no re-trials, no parole could be a source of hope for those who fell foul of his gracious diktats.
Katja knew what awaited her. The Noble Leader had in his benevolence set up a breeding programme for Oceania, in which convicted female felons were held and artificially impregnated, repeatedly, to produce troops for the ongoing war against Eurasia. These infants were bred in large centres across the cities of Oceania, taken from their mothers immediately after birth, and brought up solely for the purpose of fighting and dying in the wars that raged on the Hadrian front, in the Eurasian Channel, along the Iberian Coast, or in the Bering Strait. The lives of the mothers were not idyllic either, little was known of their conditions, but dark rumours of biomechanical innovations, and the cruel mind of the Noble Leader, struck fear into every citizen who dared to think on the matter.
“FUCK THE LEADER!” Katja screamed at the Judge, as she was wheeled from the courtroom, bound to a wheelchair. One of the guards swiftly injected her with tranquilisers, and she faded out to unconsciousness.
When Katja woke, she found herself strapped to a trolley, lying in a perfectly white, sterile room. Her clothing had been removed, and she shivered. A man entered the room in a white coat, a Doctor from the Ministry of Replication, a relatively new department which dealt with the State Breeding Programme, “New Life.” Katja’s shiver turned to a shudder, as this severe looking middle-aged man approached her, his small glasses perched on a long, thin nose. Seeing her fear, he cracked an insidious smile, and stroked her breast, feeling her skin crawl from under him. With a reedy, vicious voice he spoke: “I’m not allowed to do that, you know?! But who are you going to tell, perjurer, traitor, enemy of our great and Noble Leader?! Nobody. I may be the last living person you ever have a chance to speak to… and believe me… I am not listening…!”
Katja bit her tongue, but a tear rolled down her cheek, which seemed to please the Doctor. Turning to a set of instruments, he declared: “I am going to give you an injection. It will maximise your fertility. It may be painful, but just remember, it will enable you to do your greatest work in serving our Perfect State.” He laughed, a weasel-like giggle, and preparing the syringe of serum, he plunged it without great care into Katja’s side. She grimaced, but did not cry out. She would not give the Doctor the satisfaction. He looked disappointed, but having injected the drug, he removed the needle and patted the wound, making her flinch. “Worse is to come, my pretty one!” he declared, and pressed a buzzer. Bureaucrats came, and taking the trolley with swift efficiency, they wheeled her into a hovervan. She was on her way to the nearest New Life Centre, a concrete and steel obelisk from which there was no escape.
Leon sat in his flat, considering his options. He had written what would, in all probability, be his suicide note. How was he to find out where Katja had been taken, let alone attempt a bold – or futile – rescue attempt? Hailing a hover-taxi from outside his window, he headed for the North-West Laudatory Complex where Katja’s best friend, Lilith, could often be found hiding, posing as a loyal supplicant to the Noble Leader, in her role as a Laudatory Chorister. Inbetween her hymns of praise, Lilith would silently curse the Leader in her mind, and cross her fingers beneath the long, concealing robes.
[1,000ish]
I can definitely see how those images inspired you too.
Personal tastes, and this caters to mine - I'm not lying when I say that if I'd been given that as a taster of a novel pending release, I'd put my name down for an advance copy.
