Drafted
by Couture
email: [email protected]

(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.

***********

If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the 
author.  Your comments are their only payment.  
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is 
copyright with all rights reserved by its author 
unless explicitly indicated.