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From: "S Couture" <couture_writes@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Drafted by Couture (Sci Fi, No Sex)
Date: Tue, 25 Mar 2003 19:10:05 -0500
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Couture
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Couture/www/
http://www.literotica.com/stories/memberpage.php?uid=46698
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<1st attachment, "Drafted.txt" begin>
Drafted
by Couture
email: couture_writes@hotmail.com
(Sci-fi, no sex)
(c) 2003 Couture
***********
There was a loud knocking on the door. Boom - boom -
boom - boom. Four times.
It wasn't the polite rap of a neighbor or friend.
That's a tap - tap - tap. That's a meek three raps, a
minute's pause and a repeat.
No, this was a Boom - boom - boom - boom. It sounded
again. The knock of the police.
A knock to set your heart to pounding. I know mine
was as I did a mental checklist. Yes, my pot was
safely in a small box in the garage. It was
recreational, and I was only an occasional user, but
you could never be too careful.
"Just a minute," I said, and looked through the
peephole. It was just a young girl, professionally
dressed, perhaps twenty-five years old. What the fuck
was she thinking knocking like that? Certainly not a
good way to endear me to buy a magazine or whatever
the hell she was selling.
"Can I help you?" I asked, after I opened the door.
My voice said, no, I can't help you, not after
knocking on my door like you were trying to beat it
down.
"Yes, sir. Are you Walter Morgan?"
I hesitated. I never like to volunteer too much
information. I learned it from my days of living in
the big city, but I guess it couldn't hurt to say who
I was. "Ah- yes I am. Can I help you?"
"Yes, Mr. Morgan, you can," she pulled a billfold from
on top of the clipboard she was carrying, flashed me
the badge and identification card. "Stacy Morgan from
the Department of Homeland Defense, I hereby enlist
you Walter Randall Morgan into the service of your
country."
"Just a minute now." My heart was pounding in my
chest, the sweat running down my armpits, while she
stood serenely, the ninety degree heat not fazing her.
"I haven't - I haven't enlisted in shit!" I stammered.
She looked at her clipboard and handed me a sheet of
paper. "Sir, did you or did you not visit the
websites on that paper?"
The sheet of paper shook due to the trembling in my
hand. "Yes -but - I only wanted to find out what was
happening with the war."
"Sir, if you wanted to know all you had to do was
watch TV or go to a State sanctioned website."
Her face showed no emotion as she spouted off that
bunch of drivel. A true believer no doubt. There
would be no convincing her and of course, she couldn't
be more wrong. I could remember back to a simpler
time - a more peaceful time. A time when you didn't
have to work sixty hours a week to make ends meet or
work eight months a year for the government. Sure,
they called it taxes, but eight months? Eight long
months a year for the government? I called that
slavery.
And the news? What passed for news were videos.
Music from today's most popular artists combined with
images of war. Bombs dropped and buildings exploded
with every lick on the bass guitar or beat of the
drums. I remembered back to the sixties when music
carried the message of peace. Obviously the
government remembered too and this time they took the
music from us. It was theirs now and it carried the
message of war. Another of our rights that was taken
without so much as a token bit of resistance.
I wished I had fought back long ago. Demanded my
rights that were guaranteed by the Constitution and
Bill of Rights, but like everyone else, I was scared
after 9/11. When those twin towers fell, part of me
fell as well, a part of me that assumed we were free
from attack on our home soil. I wanted the
perpetrators killed and brought to justice just like
everyone else.
Then things started to happen. More people were
labeled terrorist. Even people like me, whose family
had been in this country for hundreds of years, were
subject to invasion of privacy or tried by military
tribunal.
Part of me woke up then and said, wait a goddamn
minute, wasn't that what this country was all about?
Our freedom? I remember talking with people from
other countries with pride about my own. What's so
great about the US, they would ask. Any American
would give the same answer. We are free, and they
would mean it down deep in their soul.
When people ask now? What's our answer? That we are
the mightiest country in the world or that we have
done such and such or so and so in the past that gives
us some sense of righteousness. What does that mean
to me? Does it make me freer than a Russian or
German? Somewhere we've lost that. We don't even
talk about freedom anymore. We barely raise a fuss as
one after another of our rights is taken.
Hell, I was as guilty as anyone else. When they were
taken away, I was too busy working and trying to live
my life, than to put up a fuss except in casual
conversation. Back then, anyone who spoke out was
labeled unpatriotic - un-American - a conspirator of
the terrorists. Now, you were labeled a sympathizer.
Me, I just wanted to be left alone and live my life.
I wasn't a fighter. That's why I kept silent. That's
why, even as I confronted the face of tyranny, this
young girl on my doorstep with her list of sites I had
visited in my own house . . . I caved.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't even remember going to
those sites. If I did, it must have been an accident.
I can promise it will never happen again."
"It's too late for that Mr. Morgan," she said, like
the bureaucratic automaton that she was. "This
country is in a battle against the forces of evil that
have spread throughout the world and every citizen,
especially those that don't appreciate the sacrifice
of our forefathers, must be called upon to perform
their duty to protect the American way of life."
At first, I thought she was arresting me, but now I
wasn't so sure. What did she want me to do, renounce
my sympathies for the enemy, whoever that was? I
could surely oblige. This was much better than the
Salem witch trials. I only hoped they wouldn't try to
get me to narc on my friends, but hell, I could think
of a few people I didn't like that I could put on the
list - starting with my ex's mother.
"Just what is it you want me to do?" I asked.
"You, Walter Randall Morgan, are hereby enlisted into
the United States Cybernaughts, to fight the forces of
evil throughout the world." The young girl reached
out and grabbed me with her hand.
Before I could pull away, my body convulsed and
dropped to the floor. I realized she must have
somehow shocked me somehow to paralize me. She kept
hold of my arm and dragged me inside the door with a
strength that belied her small size, then went back
outside and returned with a rather large case.
I tried to get back up, but my body refused to do
anything except puke up the contents of my stomach.
"Jesus, what did you do that for?" I asked.
"You would have tried to run or escape," she answered,
nonplussed, as she opened the case.
"No, I wouldn't," I protested and then I saw her
pulling out a very wicked looking saw. "What the fuck
is that for?"
"I'm going to remove your head before I dispose of
your body." Again, she was as calm as if she were
sitting on the front pew in church. She showed no
emotion, which scared me as much as anything that had
happened so far.
"Please - please - don't kill me." I cried. Hell, I
blubbered. I lost control of my bowels and I wasn't
ashamed one bit.
"You are not to be terminated. After your body is
disposed of, your brain will be cryogenically frozen
and then implanted into a machine interface.
Congratulations, you are going to be an android in the
service of the United States government's armed
services."
"Fuck no," I grunted. "I won't do it. I'm a . . .
pacifist."
"Ha-ha," she laughed. It was dry, as if two metal
plates were rubbing together. Though her face was
passive, it was the only emotion she had shown the
whole time. She straddled my chest and I was afforded
a view of her panties. They were grey just like the
rest of her sterile outfit. Strange what you look at
when you are faced with death.
She held the blade of the saw to my neck and hesitated
a moment. "You know, I said the same thing myself.
But then they put me in here. Do you know that they
can control your input? Well, you'll find out soon
enough. They can also inflict pain or dole out
pleasure as if it were food. They'll give you
training sessions. You won't even know if they are
real or not. If you do what you are told, you get
pleasure. If you disobey, you get pain. For all
you'll know, you'll always be in some sort of virtual
reality. In a short time, I can assure you, you will
choose pleasure."
I saw her finger twitch on the trigger of the saw.
"Wait -wait," I pleaded. "You're just like me - just
another victim of the government. An innocent woman,
a college student perhaps?" I wondered if I could
charm her, there still had to be a human in there
somewhere. At the least, I could bide some time to
think my way out of this predicament.
"A woman?" Her mouth cut open in an attempt at a
smile. "I was *just* like you. A man. Almost all
cybernaughts are either women or children. It helps
to confuse the enemy."
The saw pressed harder against my throat. "Please
don't do this. Let me go. They'll never know."
"If I bring you in, I get to feel pleasure," she said.
"Besides, I don't even know if you are real."
I watched the tendons, or whatever passed for them,
contract in her finger. One last chance.
"I'm real. I swear to God," I pleaded. Tears fell
from my eyes and snot ran from my nose. "Do virtual
victims cry? Do they wet their pants? Do they beg?"
There it was. A glimpse of humanity in her eyes for
the briefest moment. It looked almost like sadness.
The saw screamed. I tried to scream to scream in
answer, but nothing came out.
"They always have," she said. "Even from the
beginning." And darkness descended.
***********
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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is
copyright with all rights reserved by its author
unless explicitly indicated.
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