True Confessions

Lydia glanced nervously at the clock on the wall. 12:48. She had been in the interview room now for almost fifty minutes. Absently she gazed at the grey shabby walls that enclosed her, punctuated only by the slightly lighter grey of the equally shabby door, and the harsh neon green of the wall clock's digits. She wondered what was taking them so long. She wish she knew what was going on outside.

A trickle of sweat ran down her cheek from her forehead; cold and sensuous, it brought her back to the present. She wiped it off her face then gently licked the droplet from her hand. It tasted reassuringly salty.

She scolded herself when she realised what she was doing. Tasting your own sweat - well really! An old, nervous habit borne of a hard childhood in the colonies on the outer rim. But what did she have to be nervous about now? She was clean - Record Perfect as they used to say in the Darsity. All Klacked up and Razzing to go. Except no-one said that now. Only the survivors. And there weren't officially any of those left.

A sudden chill passed through her. Did they know? Was that why she was being kept here as they slowly combed through the backlogs of the mysterious Übercyst - the great and secret data store that, so it was said, contained everything they needed to know about you. Who you were, where you had been, whom you had grown up around. Who you had killed.

Just don't let them do a retina scan she thought. One retina scan and it's over...

The door swung open, letting in a block of harsh white light. Lydia squinted at the figure silhouetted there in the doorway. It looked calmly back at her then smiled.

"Congratulations Ms McKenna. You've got the job."

Lydia could have wept with relief. She had made it.

"I'm sorry about keeping you waiting like that." Lydia was seated in another room now. One that was as clean and white as the other had been dirty and grey. "But you can understand the need for caution in these troubled times."

Lydia looked across the desk at the man seated opposite her. She couldn't guess his age - his face was free of wrinkles and worry lines but his hair was a grubby sort of grey, as was his skin. He wore the typically austere and unsmiling look of one who has spent too long in the security forces. On one lapel of his dark and glossy white uniform was a metal badge with the word 'GIBSON' printed firmly on it. Lydia guessed this was his name. His whole manner suggested that not only did he know what Lydia had done wrong but that he was preparing to arrest her for her crimes and take her away.

He probably looks this way to everyone she thought, but this was of no comfort to her. She smiled bravely. "Yes, I do."

Gibson returned the smile in what Lydia suspected was supposed to be a reassuring fashion. It didn't work.

"That's good. Now," He reached over and pulled a stack of documents towards him. "Ms McKenna. I presume you must be curious as to what this job entails."

Lydia nodded. Of course she was. There wasn't much you could glean from the six digit codes that passed for State job descriptions. Except for the basics. And even then, you couldn't know for certain. The job might be a cover designed to entrap you into working for one of the shadier state agencies. Or worse, if the rumours she heard were true.

Her nervousness must have been showing on her face because Gibson made another attempt at a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, Ms McKenna, you haven't enlisted in the Dragoons."

Lydia tried to smile appreciatively at the weak joke, but Gibson didn't notice. He peered thoughtfully down at the file he had opened in front of him. "In fact, you might be wondering what kind of job the Solar Governments would have in mind for a promising young writer such as yourself."

Another nod from Lydia, but this time more nervous. She was no writer. Never had been. It was Frank who had written the short stories that Lydia had sent with the forms and claimed as her own. Just as it was Frank who had hired the best technorats money could buy to hack into the system and provide Lydia with the kind of glowing background credentials no-one could refuse. If it hadn't been for Frank she would never have got this far.

If it hadn't been for Frank she would never have survived the Darsity Purge.

Gibson was looking at her again and Lydia realised she had been asked a direct question.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said, Have you ever had any experience in writing true confessions?"

This time Lydia's look of confusion was genuine.

"You mean as in President's Wife Ordeal With Mad Sex-Crazed Goat Farmer?"

Gibson smiled.

"No, I mean as in Yes I Done It, It Was Me Wot Done It, Death To The Fascist Solar Governments Who Are Sucking Us Dry. Or words to that effect."

Lydia was horrified. "You mean you want to hire me to write other people's false confessions for you?!"

"Yes, of course." Gibson looked mildly amused. "I know that must come as a shock to someone fortunate enough to have lived as a Citizen all your life, sheltered by perfect luxury, but this is how the system works." Lydia could tell from his words that he was obviously taking pleasure in dirtying her world with the sordid truth. He smiled again.

"Of course, if you have any objections to such infringements on civil liberties you are perfectly free to walk out of here right now." He pointed to the door.

Lydia gazed at the floor as she considered her options. Any normal citizen would have walked out there and then. But there was something in the man's voice. Something in the way he had accented the phrases 'infringement' and 'civil liberties' that suggested that anyone who left would never be heard from again. It was a crazy assumption to make. But she had lived for too long on the wrong side of the Solar Governments not to trust her instincts. Besides, nobody ever turned down a government job. No-one who was ever heard of again, that is.. She looked up.

"Since you put it like that..." She smiled again. "I accept."

The training began almost immediately..

Lydia was taken to another grey room; almost the twin of the one she had been waiting in. There she had been 'introduced' to her first subject; a stocky, heavily bearded man of indeterminate age, shackled to a steel chair in the middle of the room. He had glared at her as she entered, unable to do much more thanks to the various restraints around his wrists, ankles and forehead, restricting his movement. At regular intervals around his body various tubes, needles and other implements had been inserted beneath the skin in such quantity that it looked like the chair had decided to grow itself a human component. Lydia had been suitably shocked when she had seen this; a reaction that seemed to please Gibson.

"Prisoner X3218532." The introductions began. "Name: Greg Hamilton. Age: 25."

(Twenty five? He looked at least fifty.)

"Crimes: Incitement to rebellion, possession of contraband illegal to citizens of his status. The verdict..."

Gibson allowed himself a thin smile.

"Guilty."

He strode to the centre of the room and stood next to the prisoner, facing Lydia.

"This room is connected directly to the central computer at the Society For Information Distribution. Whatever is said in this room is recorded by Information Distribution and printed in the Voice Of Freedom as a story in which the Chief Interrogator, which is me," He smiled again. "will be the hero. Understood?"

Lydia chose to nod. It seemed her best option.

"These stories," Gibson continued, "will be written by you, although I will be allowed to add and correct things as I see fit. Understood?"

Another nod.

"Good. Now, as you get more experienced you will be allowed to create the narrative yourself, but given that this is your first time, I will be writing most of this session. I hope you don't mind." His tone told Lydia that he really didn't care whether she minded or not.. "Computer?"

There was an electronic chirrup.

"Begin story."

Another chirrup then an affirmative bleep.

"Story recording," The computer's silvery voice echoed from the walls. Gibson nodded, almost to himself, then began talking.

The intrepid interrogator looked sadly at misguided Prisoner X3218532. His heart was filled with sorrow at the task that lay ahead of him but he knew he must perform this unpleasant duty - not for the good of the state, but for the good of poor Prisoner X3218532, in order to bring him back to normal society and make him understand the rules he had transgressed.

"Fuck you," the prisoner retorted. Instantly a bright spark danced along the wires and the man screamed in pain.

"Expletives are not allowed in our stories." Gibson was talking to the prisoner. "They are, after all, family entertainment. Let us try that again."

He turned and asked the prisoner "What is your name?"

This time the prisoner just glowered and said nothing. Gibson sighed.

"Refusal to interact with the story will also not be tolerated." As he spoke, the tubes began to pulse and the prisoner started to scream once more as a spasm of pain passed through him. "Your pain will continue until you cooperate-operate. Now,"

"What is your name?"

The prisoner continued to howl and write as the tubes pulsed.

"What is your name?"

More screams.

"What is your name?"

"You know, I don't think he'd say it like that." Gibson turned his attention away from the screaming man.

"What?" Lydia felt close to screaming herself.

"Well he's a hardened criminal. I don't think he'd scream out his name just like that. Besides, it looks bad. It looks like we're using torture to make him talk."

"But you are!" Lydia shouted, the man screams ringing loudly in her ears. Gibson sighed.

"Yes I know that, you know that, and he knows that." he explained slowly, as if talking to a small child. "But to the man on the street, Mr Hamilton is confessing naturally. It helps maintain the illusion of our fair and just society. And you wouldn't want to rob our readers of their illusions now, would you?"

Lydia was barely listening, the screams of the prisoner were becoming almost too much to bear. "Oh please, make him stop, make him stop!" she begged.

"Why don't you make him stop."

"Me? How?"

"By making him give us his name. And try to keep your self out of it this time. We can't have our author appearing as a character in her own work now, can we?"

Lydia turned to face the screaming prisoner.

"My name is Greg Hamilton," the prisoner muttered contritely.

Almost at once the screaming stopped.

"Very good, very good." Gibson seemed impressed. "Although I'd save contriteness for near the end. It makes for a much more dramatic narrative flow. You know - surly, anti-government arrogance at the start slowly being converted into apologetic loyalty by our hero, the interrogator. But let's get back to the story."

He turned back to the prisoner. There was a pause. Gibson sighed.

A tear welled in the eye of our hero, the interrogator. Now Prisoner X3218532 would never be able to show the repentance the interrogator knew his heart to hold. He had gone to a cold, treacherous grave, carrying with him the guilt of trying to incite Block 757 to revolt against the state, as well as possessing numerous quantities of banned substances 2314 for his own depraved uses. But even now the interrogator felt some ray of hope. For he knew the state would forgive Prisoner X3218532 all his crimes, as they forgive all who transgress their benevolent rule. After all, rebelling against perfection is obviously a sign of madness, and the mad must surely be tolerated and encouraged to understand the error of their ways. Yes, the interrogator felt sure that Prisoner X3218532 would be forgiven, and so his untimely early grave would not be that of a traitor, but of a contented citizen

He looked at Lydia. "That was a disappointingly short first session but I'm sure you saw enough to understand what we're doing here. I expect to see you here at 0800 hours every morning, starting tomorrow. Until then, good day." He smiled briefly. "I'm sure you can let yourself out."

Calmly Lydia turned and left the room. Then in the corridor outside she found herself a quiet corner and was sick.

That night she just lay in Frank's arms and cried. Told him about the whole hideous experience and how she had never seen anyone treat human life with such indifference, even in the Darsity. Swore over and over that she would never go back to that job, no matter what punishments they inflicted on her. And Frank - strong, supportive, loving Frank - just held her close, stroked her hair, and tried to talk her round.

She knew he was right. If she didn't go back they'd just get suspicious and come looking for her. And they both knew that an official investigation would quickly reveal Lydia's past. She was only safe as long as they didn't take an interest, Frank had always said. That was why she had taken the job in the first place. So that she could have a future with the man she loved.

Lydia hated it when Frank used this argument. It always worked.

The next day wasn't much better.

"Prisoner CQ192837. Name: Tricia Jones."

The young woman prisoner was very different from the last one. Thin and petite, she sat nervously in the chair, her big blue eyes trying to blink back tears. Despite the wires and restraints she had a healthy and well-fed quality about her that marked her out as a Citizen. She was also very young.

"Crime: purchase of illegal substance 184."

In other words, tobacco. Banned years ago by the Solar Governments due to its addictive nature and harmful long-term effects, tobacco was still talked and dreamed about by the younger Citizens as a symbol of defiance against the backward and repressive regime they lived under. Lydia guessed that the young woman had been accidentally caught in a Dragoon sting and was still hoping for a reprieve on the grounds of youthful high spirits. Poor kid.

"Verdict: Guilty. Begin story."

In this Eden we call Phatanx 3, it is a shame when any crime is committed. It is an even greater shame when that crime is committed by a young woman. For we all know that our youth are our future, and that 'Mother' is the name for God on the lips of all small children. So when our hero, the interrogator, was confronted by the sorry sight of Prisoner CQ192837, he almost resigned in disgust. Not disgust at the treatment of Prisoner CQ192837, who had been treated well, but at the possibility that our great society could be so easily undermined by the corruption of our young. But the interrogator knew in his heart of hearts that he must keep going in order to help save this poor young creature, and through her, the future of his planet.

(The young woman had actually given her name voluntarily, almost eagerly. Poor, poor kid.)

"Tricia," The interrogator stepped forward, smiling benignly. "Tricia, do you realise why you are here?"

The wires sparked and the young woman screamed.

"What was that for?" Only when the words were out of her mouth did Lydia realise how dangerous a question she had asked. Gibson seemed to take it in his stride, however.

"All lies to the interrogator are to be punished immediately." he replied, smiling at the young woman. "After all, she was caught on film receiving the substance and handing over the credits. What mistake could she have been making? That she thought she was buying Rigellian snuff-moss? I doubt it." Gibson smiled gently at his own wit. "Computer, delete last comment by prisoner and continue story."

The interrogator smiled warmly, relieved that he would not be forced to make Prisoner CQ192837 confess.

The young woman looked confused. "The Dragoon plant in the club."

Gibson sighed and stood up. Almost immediately, the young woman began to scream again as the wires sparked into life. Lydia could tell that this time they were not going to stop until the young woman had either confessed or died.

"You must tell me who supplied you with this most dreadful of banned substances."

She wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

"My boyfriend," whispered Prisoner CQ192837, almost afraid to meet the benevolent interrogator's powerful gaze.

The screaming stopped and the young woman flashed Lydia a grateful smile. Gibson was obviously pleased.

"Excellent!" He attempted an encouraging smile. "A neat answer that is not only well-written and accurate but also gives us something we can use later. Of course, she doesn't actually have a boyfriend but I'm sure we've got someone in our holding cells who fits the bill. Resume story."

The interrogator smiled with relief. It always filled him with joy when a prisoner confessed willingly. Especially one so young. It made him hopeful about the future again. But there was still one last question that needed asking.

The young woman looked desperately at Lydia. Lydia knew her cue.

As Prisoner CQ192837 began to reel of a list of names, the interrogator felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. But these were not tears of sadness. These were tears of joy; joy in the knowledge that not only had Prisoner CQ192837 willingly realised the errors of her ways but also that the information she was willingly giving would help break a ring of substance smugglers who, if left unchecked, could have further dragged this planet's youth into debauched depravity. When she had finished speaking, Prisoner CQ192837 looked at the interrogator and smiled slightly. It was a smile of love and respect that told the interrogator what he really wanted to know; that Prisoner CQ192837 had seen the error of her ways and repented.

Lydia's narrative was interrupted by a strange rhythmic noise. It was Gibson, clapping.

"Bravo," he said, "Bravo. Your credentials said you were good but I'm glad to see that you live up to them. That was moving and assertive, with the added bonus of showing the hero to be warm, compassionate, sensitive and sexy. I'm glad you know me so well." His smile was ironic but Lydia could tell that he was flattered. "Now all that remains is the sentencing."

The interrogator stepped forward with a lump in his throat.

Of course, it didn't end like that. The moment Gibson finished speaking the door swung open and two men marched in, dressed in the scarlet and black uniforms of the Dragoons. Lydia could only watch stunned as they set about disconnecting the horrified young woman from her chair, their unfocused gazes concentrating on the task in hand. Then, like mechanical men, they lifted the young woman up and carried her out of the door into the blinding white light of the corridor beyond, towards whatever fate awaited her. As they had passed Lydia, the young woman had flashed her one last desperate look. But Lydia had not been able to respond. The door slid shut and Gibson smiled.

"Well done. A very successful day's work."

Lydia felt she had to say something.

"Where are they taking her?"

"To a maximum security confinement centre for young female offenders, like I said." Gibson smiled at the look of horror with which Lydia greeted this announcement. "You surely didn't expect us to let her go free simply because she confessed, did you?"

"Yes!" was all Lydia could come up with. Gibson smiled.

"Oh come now, Ms McKenna. We can hardly let our prisoners go free from here now, can we? If we did that then our cover stories would be exposed for the lies that they are. So we have to dispose of them as best we can. Deal with them in such a way that they can never report what happens here. At least Ms Jones was allowed to live. It was, after all, a very minor crime she committed."

When Lydia left that night, her mind was reeling. Part of her was screaming at her that she should never come back to this Goddess awful place, punishment or no punishment. But there was a part of her, a tiny part of her, that was telling her something much more unusual and dangerous. It was a plan.

As plans go it was both simple and complicated. For Lydia had learned two very important facts about her job in the last two days. Firstly, the better she narrated, the less suffering was inflicted upon the prisoners and the more control she was given. Secondly, Gibson had a weakness for being made to look good. So, she reasoned, the more she played off these two facts, the better the end result would be for the prisoners.

Her logic was perfect. Only the next day she was able to transmute a gun-runner's sentence from death to forced enrolment with the Dragoons. Of course, she had to be careful. Gibson was an experienced confessions writer and could tell when she was trying to manipulate the situation. If she was being too obvious he would simply take control of the narration himself and the prisoner would, invariably, end up being punished that much more harshly.

So she began to teach herself how to write. Every day, after work, she would go home to the flat she shared with Frank and practice narrating possible scenarios in preparation for the next day's work. Sometimes she got it right. Other times, horribly wrong. But every night she practised, becoming involved with the creation of the story, discovering gifts that she had never had a chance to use in the Darsity and honing and refining them in order to save lives.

And so Lydia's life began to settle into a routine. During the day she would battle with Gibson and the state through her growing story-telling abilities, and at night she would practice her art in order to be that much more successful the next day. Sometimes she and Frank would spend an evening together but this was becoming a less and less frequent occurrence. They had grown apart as a couple thanks to Frank's resentment of Lydia's dedication to her cause and he now spent many long nights away from the flat. Lydia assumed he was having an affair but she didn't mind. She enjoyed the privacy, the space in which to create something that not only could be used against the system she hated so much but also brought her a level of joy that she had never experienced before in her life. Not even when Frank had brought her from the horrors of the Darsity to the haven of living with him.

In short, she was happy. But no happiness lasts forever.

The fateful day happened three months later.

It started perfectly normally. Lydia borrowed Frank's aircar exactly as she had done for every one of the previous ninety days, flew it uneventfully through the skies of Phatanx 3 until she reached the interrogation centre, landed, walked down the brightly lit corridors that led to the interrogation room, casually ran her id card through the security lock and waited for the door to slide open.

And found the room beyond completely deserted.

This came as such a surprise to Lydia that she actually did a double-take before peering inside. The low-level lighting was off, bathing the room in a murky soup of half-shadows that made it difficult to see much but Lydia could make out the interrogation chair sitting forlornly empty in a pool of light in the middle of the room. There was no sign of Gibson. Cautiously, she stepped inside.

"Ah, Ms McKenna. I'm glad you could make it." The shadows near the chair moved and a figure stepped into the light. As her eyes adjusted Lydia could see it was Gibson. "I'm sorry to say there's been a change of plan for today's interrogation."

"Really?" Lydia's voice was calm but her mind was racing, preparing for anything.

"Yes." There was a whirring behind her as the door slid shut, confirming Lydia's worst fears. It had to be a trap. "You see, we had an interesting vid-call this morning from a Mr Frank McKenna. Do you know him at all?"

"Yes, he's my life-partner."

"Was your life partner, Ms McKenna, was.. At 0600 hours this morning, Mr Frank McKenna petitioned the State for an immediate divorce from yourself. When we asked him on what grounds, he told us some very interesting facts about you, Ms McKenna. Would you like to know what he said?"

Lydia felt the room spin as she shook her head. Carefully she took long, deep breathes to try to calm herself down. "Did..did he say why he was doing this?"

Gibson shrugged. "His official excuse was that he wanted to marry another woman - some bimbo Citizen whom he had been seeing behind your back for the last month. Personally, I think he did it because he was jealous. You're a much better writer than he'll ever be."

Jealous?! Lydia could hardly believe it. Frank - strong, supportive, loving Frank - had abandoned all that had happened between them and betrayed her just because he was jealous?!

The horrified disbelief must have shown on her face because Gibson leaned forward and smiled cruelly.

"Isn't it sad how petty some people can be." He stood up. "Computer, lights!"

The lights flashed up quickly in front of her, so harsh and bright that Lydia cried out in pain, screwing her eyes up tight.

"I know this sounds incredibly silly," Somewhere in front of her she could hear Gibson moving towards her, "but I don't suppose you're willing to give yourself up and confess of your own free will?"

Lydia shook her head, partly in response to the question, partly to try and persuade her eyesight to return. There was a sigh from Gibson.

"No, I somehow didn't think you would. Our propaganda is sadly so good that sometimes my superiors are stupid enough to believe such nonsense as the goodness of the state making hardened criminals so ashamed they automatically confess. Fortunately for them, I have a much more cynical view of human nature, which is why I persuaded them to give me this."

As Gibson finished, Lydia's instincts took over. She had faced people like Gibson before. People who believe that image is as important as the fight, who gloat first and stab later. Which is why when Gibson emphasised the word "this", Lydia made her move, forcing one arm up in a defensive arc whilst pushing herself away from Gibson's voice. The tearing noise of fabric told her she had made the right move; Gibson's weapon had torn her clothes but not her flesh. But there was no time for combat analysis now. Hurriedly she rolled to her left, pulling herself to her feet as she did so and trying to find her foe. The lights were still too bright but her eyesight had adjusted enough for her to see Gibson as an expanding blob as he rushed towards her. Instinctively she defended herself again but Gibson was prepared this time. He feigned left then lashed out with his foot, hooking one of Lydia's legs and sending her crashing to the floor.

The next few moments were a terrifying blur. Every time Gibson lunged, Lydia blocked, every time she tried to retreat, he caught up with her. Lydia couldn't help feel that he was trying to herd her in a certain direction but she had no time to find out where or why as she strived to block and dodge blow after blow, feeling herself grow more and more tired with every move.

Suddenly she felt something cold and metallic against her back. Twisting round, Lydia saw she was backed up against the interrogation chair and knew it was over. She turned back to see Gibson towering over her, a hypo needle in one hand. He grinned wolfishly.

"It's been so nice working with you," he sneered and plunged the needle downwards.

Those words were all the breathing space she needed. With a final effort, Lydia hurled herself sideways, aiming a kick at Gibson's shins as she went. Distracted by the blow, Gibson momentarily lost his balance and stumbled forwards into the path of his needle. Lydia watched as the inch long spike sank deep into his leg and automatically emptied its contents into his system. For a moment Gibson was frozen, his face a mask of agony. Then he collapsed forward, right into the chair.

In that moment Lydia knew what to do.

"Computer!" she shrieked. "Begin story."

Almost immediately the metal restraints snapped into place around Gibson's head and legs.

"No!" he cried, realising what Lydia was doing. "Computer, end sto..." It was too late. The paralysing drug was starting to work. Lydia smiled.

Our hero, the interrogator, looked in horror at Prisoner CG12432. Could what she had been saying be true?

Gibson tried to moan a complaint but his speech was too slurred to be recorded.

"No! moaned Gibson. Obviously the drug was starting to wear off. "No, they'll kill me!"

Prisoner CG12432 smiled warmly. "Thank you Gibson. Now you have confessed, you know what happens next."

The door slid open and two Dragoon guards marched in.

"That is very noble of you," said Prisoner CG12432. "Shall I help you up?"

They lifted the screaming Gibson out of the chair and began to march him towards the door. Lydia followed behind.

"It would be a pleasure," said Prisoner CG12432 as she led our hero Gibson towards the door and his life imprisonment. "And I'll accompany you on your long journey to the Security Hostel, to make sure you are not tired or hurt on the journey."

"NO!" screamed Gibson as the door slid opened into the blinding white light of the corridor beyond.

When he reached the door, Gibson turned to Prisoner CG12432 and smiled. "You know, I think this is the beginning of a new life for me."

The door slid shut on an empty room.

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