The Vorkian [a dystopian novella]: The 2250 Saga Page 3

  We don’t talk much, Celeste and I. One night after a particularly sweaty tryst, she lies on my arm as she circles her red lacquered finger on my chest. Her straw hair scratches the skin on my arm but I don’t shrug her away. We only have a few minutes before I need to shadow Benta for a late night sale.

  I ask her why we were selected to be Vorkians. There isn’t one thing any of these fellahs and I have in common, other than being typical Citizens.

  “You won’t all become Vorkians,” she corrects. “Only five or six of you will be licensed—those who display the proper characteristics.”

  When I ask her what those are, she says, “You all have various levels of psychopathy we find appealing—necessary—in the overall makeup of a Vorkian.”

  When I ask her who exactly “we” are, she answers by kissing me harder and throwing one long leg over to straddle me.

  I soon learn it’s her way of avoiding my questions.

  Then, one fine day, I chat with Shen and a couple of others in one of the mess halls. Another trainee, I think his name is Voss, walks in with his face in his hands, as if he’s been crying.

  One fellah whispers, “He couldn’t go through with one,” and the rest of us stay quiet, lost in our thoughts on what will happen next.

  Celeste struts through the door and walks up to Voss. “Let’s take a walk,” she breathes. She leads him back out the door. When she comes back ten minutes later, he’s not with her.

  We never see the fellah again.

  We all hold our breaths until she walks up to another trainee and heads out the door with his hand in hers.

  “It’s a busy day,” Shen mutters, to titters amongst the rest of the group. “Oh but the things she can do—”

  “How many you reckon she goes through in a day?” another fellah says.

  I stand and walk away before the answer reaches my ears.

  I’m not the brightest, but I’m not a complete idiot. Sure, I didn’t think I was the only one, not that I gave it much thought, and I’m not mad or anything. I shouldn’t feel jealous—she’s not mine. Maybe I feel a little used. Nobody likes being used.

  I’m beginning to wonder if this is my new reality and I don’t know that I’m into it, to be honest. It’s boring, really. I also don’t quite understand how or when riches will come with such a job.

  I didn’t make Prospo-level wages in Recyclables but it was enough. I never needed much. I never had any desire to “live the good life” the way Dez wanted to, like he would do the more he dealt in the black market and banned things. I had a good life once, and it was taken away. There’s nothing better than what I had.

  Besides, I’ve never wanted to live in Prospo City. What would I do there, anyway?

  I can’t remember half the stuff they teach us. Was it the colour blue that evokes calmness? Or was it purple? Oh, who cares?

  Shen the Smartass, on the other hand, seems to thrive on all the training they give us.

  “It’s intriguing,” he says one evening before we bunk down for the night. “I mean, who woulda thunk that people have so much faith in places and visions after death, right?”

  They teach us about a new, still rather secret belief system which formed around the time of the Great Omni. A red and gold book was discovered, called the Omega. It outlines the requirements to be a Vorkian, the reasons people would call them.

  Only the truly devout get to touch it, least of all read it. I haven’t seen the book—just copies of snippets.

  They teach us when a person from Apex makes the ultimate sacrifice, their name will earn a prominent place in the book. For such a sacrifice is made for the good of the people, for the good of Apex. Because every new person takes up valuable resources. The sacrifice in itself is sacrilegious.

  To take their lives with their own hand is a mere waste and will not earn them anything but an incineration. Those people are not important—those people are dirt, and will only end up in hell.

  People would rather be emulated than treated like dirt. I should know.

  So they contact a Vorkian when it’s time. At least there’s some sort of ‘heaven’ promised to them after our visit, and huge credits transferred to their kin.

  Who knows who actually puts all these names in the book? I wouldn’t, since I’ve never seen the thing.

  I don’t understand any of the other nonsense either, but I nod.

  “My daughter,” Shen says, “believes in fairies. Can you believe it?”

  Fairies, I think, picturing my daughter Lillian in her favourite fairy costume. She’d wear it everyday, and dance and jump in the rain. “Chasing rainbows,” my wife would laugh.

  I blink several times, fighting tears. “How old is she?” I ask.

  He tells me she just turned eight, then he turns his back to me again. I wonder how much he misses her. His family. At least they’re alive. At least there’s that.

  He sniffs quietly, and I realize he’s crying. I’ve got no one to miss anymore. Maybe Dez, but that’s only coz he finds me the best virtual shows.

  I wonder if they’d let me go home if I said this wasn’t the job for me? If I said, “Thanks but no thanks, I want to go back to Recyclables.” I mean why me, anyway? I definitely didn’t put in a request for this assignment. I’d remember that.

  “I wonder how they chose us,” I say to Shen. Given that Celeste won’t tell me the details, I wonder if he’d wager a guess. “Do you know?”

  He shakes his head from side to side and sniffs. “I suspect it’s a lottery. I don’t know.”

  It could be. They never tell us how things are run, anyway. We just do as we’re told and go where we need to go. It’s better for Apex as a whole if we don’t ask too many questions. If we don’t ask questions at all.

  “Everyone has a job,” Shen says. “Everyone needs to work.”

  That’s true. But I had a job. Who would take over my old work, if I’m doing this? And whose am I taking over?

  “What was yours?” I ask.

  He hesitates then says, “I worked in the factories. Uhm—clothes production.”

  Huh. Well, not as bad as Recyclables, I suppose.

  The next day, Celeste comes in the room again. I wonder why she’s always in the same green dress. Maybe it’s a uniform, the way our suits are. She could have hundreds of clones of the one dress for all I know.

  “Okay,” she says. “Today, you learn about overcoming objections.”

  We’re told, from time to time, clients change their minds at the last minute.

  “They decide they don’t want to die after all,” she says. “Your job is to complete the mission you were hired to do, no matter their objections. Else, you’ve failed. Remember what happens to Vorkians who fail.”

  It’s more complicated than I think, convincing someone they need to die when they’re convinced otherwise. I learn all the tricks, and the most important one of all—finding people with more to lose if they continue to live, that’s the trick. Persuading them there’s worse things than death.

  I can’t even talk myself into that.

  Another time I shadow Benta, I change in the car on our way to visit our fourth client of the day.

  The last one’s ashes managed to get away from me, covering me from my shoulders to thighs in dust. Not a good look to bring to a new client.

  Benta watches me as I change. Why be modest? We’re not really Citizens anymore anyway, are we?

  “What is that?” he says, pointing to the line of symbols I’ve had branded across my chest. Two are still red and itchy, barely a day old. I hadn’t thought of it until he pointed them out to me.

  “Just a reminder,” I say, “of the generosity of our clients.” He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “This one,” I say, pointing to the bright red rose, “is the first lady, Amara. This—” I point at two pink hearts “—is the Citizen who lost his daughters to the Sorens. And this—” I point at a small black dragon “—is for that man with the awful bad breath.”


  Because what’s the point if there’s no humour?

  I don’t bother explaining the others. He gets the idea.

  “Hmm,” he says, “interesting. Well a lot of us find comfort in collecting trophies. I suppose yours is fitting. You’re a more subtle type.” I’m not sure what he means but I nod.

  I wonder if he collects any trophies. When I ask, his eyes gloss over.

  “I used to,” he says, “a long time ago. I stopped.” His flat tone discourages me from asking more.

  Within a few minutes, we’re in a meeting room with a young Prospo fellah, one I recognize as the son of a famous family living on the North-end of Prospo City. He can’t be more than twenty. He’s a star quarterback, and I remember reading about what a promising future he has.

  But my job is not to ask questions, certainly not to challenge them on their decision. My job is to follow through.

  So, when I charge the ROSiE, I’m stumped when he suddenly says, “I change my mind.”

  Before I can respond, Benta’s already on his feet, and he grabs the ROSiE from my hands.

  “Son,” Benta says, “you contacted us. We are here to help you make a peaceful transition. Your sacrifice is great, and you will be emulated for the rest of time in the Omega book.”

  “But—” the Prospo sputters. “I don’t want it anymore. I want to live. I change my mind!”

  Benta sighs and says, “That is a normal reaction. You’re entitled to it, son.”

  Then he calmly walks up behind the Prospo, so fast I nearly miss it. He’s already got the ROSiE pressed against the Prospo’s neck before the client can bring his arms up to stop him.

  Benta says, “I wish for you a peaceful transition,” and depresses the trigger.

  The Prospo’s arms are only halfway up to stop him when they fall back to the sides again.

  Benta has him in such a hold, he only slumps forward and doesn’t fall all the way to the ground.

  Benta’s eyes land on me, waiting for my reaction. Other than the erratic pulse on my throat, I don’t budge. My entire body is tense though. I realize I was about to come to the Prospo’s aid, but Benta moved too fast. Why did he still go through with it? It was clear the kid didn’t want to die.

  Still, our training is fresh in my mind. I fight conflicting thoughts of relief that I didn’t move—else I’d be dead too—with the fact the Prospo changed his mind, but it was too late.

  “Once their funds are confirmed transferred,” Benta confirms, “we must follow through.”

  Which is why we always request credits before we show up. The vidfeed will be edited, in case his family requests it. The part where he changed his mind will miraculously disappear.

  “It’s good for you, getting the branding,” Benta says later, as we make our way back to the Training site. “You need to look forward to something worthwhile in this job. Or you’ll find yourself summoning one of your Vorkian brothers.”

  “He changed his mind,” I say, my confidence returning only slightly, now that we’re sitting in the car. “I mean, I thought we had to offer the best customer service. What sort of customer service is it if we still do it, if we still use the ROSiE on them, after they’ve changed their minds?”

  He pauses for a moment. “There will come a time, maybe not soon, maybe only after a few decades, when you won’t want to go through with it. You’ll want to retire. There’s no retirement from this, from death. So find a way to push through and do it. Because there are others who would do anything for your job. Who’d kill for your job!”

  Despite the quip, there isn’t a hint of humour in his eyes.

  I realize it’s the most Benta’s ever spoken to me before, or since. Then I wonder what he was like before he became this super efficient Vorkian. I wonder how long it took for him stop considering the humanity behind his clients.

  Once we’re on site, I start to make my way to my quarters. Benta stops me and points to where Celeste stands. She waits for me around the corner, an inviting come-hither plastered on her face.

  I haven’t been back to her since the day she took a walk with Voss.

  Benta nods in her direction. “One day, my death will come—and yours—and everyone’s. Just coz we deal in it daily, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t celebrate life, right?”

  Before I answer, he turns around and heads into the veda.

  Fighting a sudden urge to scratch my newest brand, I glance at where Celeste stands—but turn the other way, heading to my quarters.

  A couple of weeks later, in one of our meeting rooms, Celeste says, “You’re nearly ready.”

  We’ve been here what, two months? And we’re nearly ready. I wonder what’s left to learn.

  “Next step,” she says, “is your final exam. Then you’re ready for licensing. Then, off you go to work and make commissions!”

  This time, her smile does reach her eyes—they crinkle at the corners as she watches us, and she has us follow her to another part of the facility.

  I just hope our final isn’t a written exam. I’d do better if it was an interview instead. I never did do too well in school and if it’s written, well it’s a guaranteed fail.

  When she splits us up again, I realize I’m in a room with Shen. Great. Well, rooming with him hasn’t been too bad after all. Either he’s calmed down with his Smartass ways or I got used to it.

  We sit across from each other in a room that’s empty, but for the table between us.

  “So,” he says, “I wonder how the final will go.”

  Then Celeste struts in and places a small object on the table. “You may begin,” she says, and walks away.

  I look down at the object, a slim black rectangle. Its edges seem grey from afar. When you inspect up close though, they’re a silvery-blue. I remember thinking the first time I held one that it doesn’t seem impressive if you didn’t know what it’s for.

  But I know by now—the smallest, most unassuming things in the world can cause the most damage.

  Such as this ROSiE, which now sits between me and my roommate.

  “What—” I say, turning to Celeste. My question dies on my lips when I see her slip out the door.

  When I turn back around, the ROSiE is in Shen’s hands. He turns it over once and snickers at me.

  “Huh,” he says. “This is the final exam, then.” He chuckles as he charges up the weapon.

  Am I about to die? Is that the final exam—whoever was faster in picking up the weapon and discharging it gets the job? What a crock.

  “Do you believe in heaven?” he jokes, as one finger strokes a silver side of the ROSiE. My eyes dart from his hands to his eyes.

  It’s a question I’d dealt with for months after my girls died.

  “No.” I say, keeping my voice steady though I’m secretly terrified that this is it.

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “Really? What happens after death, mate?”

  “Nothing,” I say. I’m certain of it. Despite what they say is written in the Omega Book, there’s a whole lotta nothing at the other end of death. Just a dead body to be incinerated, the ashes scattered in the wind.

  Here, we’ve learnt it’s also the Vorkian’s job to dispose of the remains as he sees fit, if the client doesn’t specify what they want. Most choose to burn their clients and scatter their ashes—wherever.

  A few have been at this for so long, they start to lose their humanity and eat parts of the dead before they send money to the families.

  For me, there isn’t a family left behind who will grieve me. There’s no heaven, no hell, just a vat-load of nothing. Blackness. No dreams. No conscience.

  “That’s depressing,” Shen says, “if you actually think that.” He examines the weapon again.

  I don’t see why it’s depressing. I wouldn’t be aware there’s nothing. I would just become nothing. No pain. No sadness. Nothing. The same words I kept reciting after I lost my girls.

  Besides, if I believe in heaven, I’d have to believe in hell too, wouldn�
��t I? I’d much rather have a whole hecka nothing than whatever’s waiting for you in hell.

  “Guy,” Shen says, “how can you sell something you don’t believe in?”

  “Those are two separate entities, mate,” I reply. “One’s my job, the other’s moot. I live in Apex, and I’m not a Prospo. That’s all I believe.”

  It’s our reality. Why would I think otherwise? Why would I care what the clients believe? By the time they decide to call death, they have to be ready.

  “What about you, Shen?” I ask, my eyes still on the weapon. “What do you believe?” I couldn’t care less what his answer will be, but I’m not ready for what’s coming.

  The only thing that depresses me is how Shen the Smartass will be the last person I see before I die. Hell, Celeste would be a far better option than him. She’s scary but at least she’s not bad to look at. I wouldn’t mind watching her when I die.

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the thing. “Well, if there’s such a thing as heaven, it would be far better than this, wouldn’t it?”

  I try to remember what Shen’s told me his job is. Was. I’d heard rumours about those ‘Clothing Factories’ for years since I was a kid, that they’re not entirely for making clothes.

  When I lost my girls to the factories, I refused to give in to the rumours. I couldn’t face it that those places had far less clothes than they’d told us.

  When they died, well there was no question in my mind. So I wonder—

  “It would,” I say. “It would be far better than any future you and I could have in a place like this. In Apex.” I’m not sure what I’m saying, though the words come out of me easily. “Didn’t you say you have a daughter, Shen?”

  His eyes flash up to mine. “Yeah. What of her?”

  “Well,” I say. The only way I can live through this is if I can get the weapon out of his hands and into mine. Though there’s not much for me to live for, I’m not ready to die today.

  This sort of job wouldn’t be as dull as Recyclables would it? Besides, there’s nothing remotely interesting about being dead.