Futureland: Nine Stories of an Imminent World

He went down the jet-black corridor, following a thin but bright blue line that ran along with red and lavender and green neonlike strings of light. Bits crossed paths with one other naked prisoner along the way. He was a bearded and tattooed white man with a large belly and big muscles. He was following the lavender and orange line that veered off down a different hallway. When they passed close to each other the white man made a silent salute. Bits returned the gesture but maintained the silence. He well remembered what had happened to Jerry and the pain that he felt after Sella’s treacherous embrace.

The blue line stopped at a doorway edged in blue light. The only indication that it was a doorway was the rectangular outline and the fact that the blue line stopped there.

Through the doorway Bits found himself in a bright, pure white expanse that seemed to go on, in all directions, forever. In the center of this expanse was a black desk. Behind the desk stood an elegant white man in a black andro-suit.

Bits looked from the man down to his feet. The illusion was that he stood on a clear glass floor that looked down upon an infinitely distant whiteness. He wasn’t sure how the illusion was maintained, but it was very disconcerting.

“M Arnold,” the tall man said in an official but not unfriendly tone. “Welcome to Angel’s Island.”

Bits felt dizzy. He was afraid to advance the twenty feet or so to the man in black, the spot in an infinite sky.

“Hey,” the convict said.

“I’m the warden here,” the white man said. “But you can call me Roger.”

“Okay.”

“I meet every prisoner when he arrives. I tell them the rules, answer any questions they might have, and then send them on their way. It’s all very civilized here. The guards are unarmed, there’s very little interaction between the staff and the convict population. Weeks might go by and you won’t see one of us.”

“What if I get sick or get mail or something?”

Roger walked around to the front of his desk. He was exceptionally thin but in no way brittle or fragile. He was cleanshaven, with patches of darkness under his eyes.

“There will be no communication with your old life, Vortex. That was forfeit with the suspension of your citizenship. There is no vid input here. No outside. There’s you and your cell mates. There’s me and my staff. There’s work if you want it, and nothing if you prefer. No books or writing pads or church or time. You have been sentenced to limbo and the only hope you have is if we can scientifically certify that you are no longer a threat to your country.”

“H-how do you do that?” Bits asked.

“I don’t do it, you do.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“It’s very simple,” Roger said, waving his left hand in the air. “I take it that Sella and M Lamont have explained the rudiments of the snake pack to you.”

In the far-off distance, to the right of Warden Roger, Bits saw something like a passing cloud. It was mostly white but there were pale blue fringes and shadows here and there to define it. He thought that this anomaly was the architect’s idea of art.

“Yeah,” Bits said. “It’s a high-tech shackle. Like my own personal guard.”

“Exactly,” Roger said. “Every time the snake has to discipline you there is a mark registered. If you have to be awakened or if you have to be put to sleep, if you break the sexual codes or talk while on duty. If you approach too close to a guard or stray from an assigned task. Each offense is a mark on the main computer file.”