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Chapter Twenty-Six
JUNE 2088
Alex
Alex was expecting to be taken back to his cell after saying goodbye to Charles, but instead he was escorted to a section of the prison he’d never visited before. There was a name stamped in black letters on the steel grey door: Indentured Servant Detention Centre .
Once he’d passed through the door, he was immediately ordered to strip.
“You don’t own anything now,” one of his guards told him, with a vicious grin. “The court has ordered that your clothes and personal effects are to be sold to pay off your debt. So, take off that fancy suit, and the watch, the earring, and the rings – they aren’t yours anymore.”
Alex had never cared much about possessions, but it hurt to remove his own personal choice of clothing for what might be the last time. It was like ripping off his skin, removing his identity with each layer, leaving him raw and exposed. Whoever bought his contract could give him another name, new clothes, a new haircut – an entirely different identity.
He finished undressing, placed his socks and underwear on top of the pile of garments, and then stood, naked and shivering, aware of his own vulnerability.
He was ordered into a cold shower. When he emerged, he was given a grey robe to wear, then sent to a small box of a room where a medibot asked him hundreds of personal questions about his medical history and health.
“You’ll now be given a full examination for insurance purposes,” the bot explained. “Prospective buyers will want to know how much they’ll have to pay for the premium.”
The medibot resembled a grey box with various arm attachments, run by AI. Most medibots were standard household items, able to administer first aid and call for an ambulance where they judged it necessary, but medical facilities used a more sophisticated version like this one, to run basic tests.
His lung capacity, blood pressure, heart rate, and countless other things were assessed and vials of blood and urine taken. He was weighed and every inch of him was measured.
He bent over while the bot probed his anus and asked about his sexual history. It had been programmed to have a cheerful female voice, completely at odds with the nature of the exam. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on breathing.
“This is for the sale procedure,” the bot explained. “You’ll be listed on the IS Agency site, and prospective buyers will obviously want to know what they’re purchasing.”
The bot politely requested that Alex hold out his arm, then approached him with a syringe.
“What’s that?” Alex asked, alarmed at being injected with some unknown substance.
“You don’t have a right to know, but the good news is I’m permitted to tell you,” the bot replied, managing to sound both jolly and officious at the same time. “While you said your vaccinations are up to date, it wouldn’t be fair on your future houder if you were sold without this precaution. It’s a standard multi-vax shot, including against STDs, so nothing to worry about.” The medibot jabbed the needle into Alex’s arm to punctuate that.
“Finally, the moment I’m sure you’ve been waiting for – your microchip.”
Alex wondered who’d programmed the damn thing to sound so excited about it .
“You’ll be registered in the Indentured Servant Agency database, so you can be tracked. Your chip contains all your personal details – name, date of birth, IS number, and so on.” The medibot scooped the chip into the syringe attachment on one of its arms. “It’s also a GPS locator, so please don’t try to escape. It’s a legal requirement that I inform you that if the chip is cut out it’ll emit an alert to the IS Agency, transmitting your last verifiable location.”
The bot’s voice changed from cheery to solemn as it read out a legal statement. “You are a convicted felon, and your houder is your de facto jailer for the duration of your sentence. As such, they are allowed, under IS law, to punish you by keeping you confined to a room for long periods with minimal basic food rations and making you undertake tedious physical labour within parameters approved by the IS Agency. If your behaviour persists, they have recourse to a variety of perfectly legal actions that could result in significant physical discomfort. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Alex lowered his head, surrendering to the humiliation of his new condition.
“You’re required to record that understanding, so you can’t deny it later.” The medibot reverted to its previous chirpy tone of voice as it gave him a nanopad to register his approval.
Alex read through the legal statement, but it simply repeated the bot’s words. He pressed his biometric agreement, had his retina scanned, and handed back the nanopad.
“Thank you. You’ll feel it pinch as it goes in and have a bruise for a day or two, but nothing to worry about.” The medibot held the gun over Alex’s wrist and took firm hold of his arm. There was a loud whooshing sound and a sudden jolt.
“There – all done.”
Alex examined the red mark it had left on his flesh; there was a small hole, oozing blood, where the chip had gone in.
“Just need to activate it…” The medibot held a small electronic device over his wrist and the chip lit up, blinking redly under his skin.
Alex had seen microchips flashing in the wrists of the various indentured servants he’d known over the years and paid them no attention. Now he had one inside his own body, he wanted to take a knife and cut it out.
The chip itself didn’t hurt, beyond a mild throb where it had been inserted, but the fact of it registering his every move felt suffocating. He had to take a few breaths to calm himself.
“That concludes your physical assessment,” the medibot informed him. “It’ll be uploaded to the system, and then the bidding will begin. You should be starting your new life as an IS within a couple of weeks.”
“I can’t wait,” Alex murmured.
“You may be contacted to complete a survey about your experience here today. Please advise if you would be willing to answer a few questions for the chance of winning a five-hundred-pound cash card,” the medibot said cheerily.
“Fuck off.”
The medibot didn’t seem put out by this response. It just ploughed on with its script.
“Thank you for your cooperation and best wishes in all your future endeavours.”
The whole procedure had taken the best part of a day. Alex was issued a set of blue prison overalls and taken to a new cell. It was small and grey – much like his previous cell – but it felt very different. He’d been stripped of everything. He was a blank slate, waiting for someone to buy him and scrawl all over him.
Lying down on the bunk, he stared blankly at the ceiling, his fingers seeking out the small lump on his wrist that was winking persistently in the dark. He closed his eyes tightly to hold back the tears.
Who would buy his contract, and what would they require him to do? It could be anything from office work to hard physical labour. A felon couldn’t be contracted to offer sexual services, but that was small comfort given his situation.
He was acutely aware that his life was now completely outside his own control. Neil, Spencer, and all the other indentured servants his family employed had seemed happy enough with their lot. They had a roof over their heads, clothes to wear, and food to eat. Their servitude had been a blessing, a way to avoid the government work camps or the Quarterlands. But there was a big difference between their condition and his.
They had sold themselves to houders of their choosing and had specified the terms of their contract. They could also ask for their indenture to be rescinded before their term was up – although it would mean forfeiture of a portion of their fee, and their houder might not agree to it.
He didn’t have any of those options, and it would be years before there was even a chance of someone buying his freedom back. In the space of a few short weeks he’d lost everything – and he only had himself to blame.
The next two weeks passed in slow monotony as he waited to hear his fate. The auction took the form of sealed bids, and all the bidders were required to be registrants with the Indentured Servant Agency with fully paid-up licences.
Alex fretted constantly, torn between wanting to fetch a high sum to save Lytton AV from its debtors and worry about what kind of service he’d be required to provide if someone had to fork out that much money for him. He feared he’d be a disappointment to whoever it was; he’d hardly made a stellar success of anything in his life so far.
Finally, the day of reckoning drew near. He barely slept the night before, his stomach churning in anticipation of what this day would bring. He lay in his blue prison overalls, staring at the ceiling, but no matter how hard he tried, his mind wouldn’t be still.
He retraced every single step that had brought him to this place and imagined every terrible fate that might await him. He was almost relieved when a prison guard opened his cell door with a loud clatter.
“Rise and shine!” The man grinned at him. He was one of the kinder guards. “It’s your big day, lad. Do you have any idea who’s bought ya?”
Alex shook his head. “Whoever it is, it can’t be as terrible as what I’ve been imagining all night.”
“Yeah, you do look like shit.” The guard patted him on the arm. “Never mind. The wait will soon be over, and I’m sure it won’t be as bad as ya think. ”
He escorted Alex to the judge’s chambers. She peered at him disapprovingly over her glasses.
“You have fared better than I anticipated – and than you deserve,” she told him sternly. “We’ve had many interested parties, and a sale has been agreed.”
“Am I allowed to know how much my contract has been sold for?” Alex asked.
“Yes – in fact, you are required to know, as the sale of your property and possessions, including your own person, is to be used to help discharge the debt caused by your theft and the costs incurred in your legal case.”
Alex crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping it would be enough to save Lytton AV.
“I must say, I’ve never presided over such an extraordinary auction,” she continued, prolonging the agony. “The bidding was the highest we’ve ever experienced. You are officially the most expensive indentured servant in the land – by quite some margin.”
Alex smiled in relief – which she misconstrued as vanity.
“You shouldn’t give yourself any credit,” she snapped. “Simple notoriety was the reason. Your misdeeds are well known, Mr Lytton.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lowered his head, still smiling – his high price was good news for his father’s company, if nothing else.
“You fetched the sum of one hundred and sixty million pounds, which discharges your debt to Lytton AV, your legal costs, and the state’s costs as well.” She pushed her glasses up her thin nose, her nostrils flaring.
His head jerked up in surprise. “A hundred and sixty million? Who would pay that for an indentured servant?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you, and the auction papers have been sealed at your new houder’s request. A wise precaution given your notoriety and the current media interest in you. Your houder is entitled to have their privacy respected. The legal paperwork has been completed, the money has been received, and you have been transferred into their custody. All that remains is to register you as their responsibility in the IS Agency database.”
She waved her nanopad over his wrist, and his microchip gave one long flash before resuming its usual pulsing. “There. You are no longer under this court’s jurisdiction. Your houder will collect you forthwith.”
He was led away, still reeling, but happier than he’d felt in weeks. At least his father’s company and all the indentured servants who worked there were safe, and the great wrong he’d committed had been righted.
He felt almost buoyant as he was taken back to the IS Detention Centre and given a zipped bag containing his new clothes.
He’d expected a standard livery – maybe overalls, or at least something bearing his new houder’s insignia, but instead he pulled out a charcoal grey suit, tailored to his exact measurements.
It was beautifully cut and clearly expensive, but then his new owner must be rich if they could afford to pay so much for him.
The rest of the clothes were equally luxurious: a pair of grey cashmere socks, white silk boxer shorts, a crisp navy cotton shirt that felt cool and soft on his skin, and a royal blue tie. There was an expensive gold watch, and, much to his surprise, a single black obsidian earring, very shiny and perfectly round. That he’d been provided with just the one earring for his one pierced ear showed an attention to detail that was impressive.
His shoes were brand new, highly polished, and made of fine black leather. There was one final item – a plain gold necklace, as elegant and expensive as all the other items he’d been given, with his IS number etched upon the tag attached to it.
He took it gingerly and fastened it around his neck. It felt no different to wearing any other kind of necklace, except this one told the world that he wasn’t free. Despite its elegance, he found it even harder to bear than the chip implanted under his skin.
By law, all ID numbers had to be on display, whether on a bracelet, necklace, or pin – and this was designed to fit snugly, more like a choker, just above the collar of his shirt. It was another reminder of his loss of freedom. He had to clench his fists to keep himself from removing it.
“Don’t worry, son – everyone feels like this at first,” the kind prison guard said gently. “You’ll soon get used to it and forget it’s there.”
Was that even possible? Would the day ever come when the sensation of wearing this necklace around his neck, light and beautiful though it was, did not weigh him down? He didn’t think so.
He was escorted to a secure exit, where a shiny black limousine was waiting. His new houder had also sent four indentured servants with it, to escort him to his new home. They all wore plain black suits and white shirts, with no insignia to indicate who they belonged to, their silver ID pins neatly attached to their suit jackets.
Their outfits looked cheaper than his charcoal suit, which meant he was already being singled out for different treatment; he wasn’t sure if that boded well for his future or not.
Sliding into the back of the AV, he gazed out of the tinted windows as the limo swept him through the prison gates.
The media were camped outside, desperate to catch a glimpse of him wearing his new houder’s ID tag, and hoping, no doubt, to revel in every last detail of his humiliation.
They rushed forward, cameras flashing, screaming his name, but the tinted windows ensured they didn’t get the shots they wanted. The driver soon lost them.
“Where are we going?” he asked the IS sitting beside him. The man didn’t reply; he didn’t even spare him a glance. Alex resigned himself to the silence. This was his life now, and he’d better get used to it.
He looked out onto the world as an IS for the first time. They passed through a lost zone, then past shops, offices, restaurants, and along residential streets. People were going about their everyday business as usual – getting into their ducks, pushing children along in buggies. Today was just another day for them, but everything had changed for him.
He sat back in his seat, his stomach churning anxiously, wondering what this new life would bring.