Dark Doses
Todd Thorne
DARK DOSES
Seven gritty speculative stories by
Todd Thorne
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2011 Todd Thorne
Kindle Edition, License Notes
This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Todd Thorne.
FORWARD
For some peculiar reason, the tales I spin all tend to be of a dark and somewhat twisted tilt. If this is not your bag and you’re either previewing or have received this anthology for free, then I recommend closing it and moving on to your next option. Otherwise, give it a shot. Hey, you might find something new to tickle your fancy. It could happen.
As long as I can remember, my fiction has been dark. I credit the likes of Bradbury, Asimov, Niven, Bradley, Van Vogt, Heinlein and other classic giants who turned me on with their more downbeat, gritty, murky themes. Inspiration flows from those who are themselves inspired from quantum up through cosmic levels. I’ll testify to that. It’s where my spark came from.
I also credit a girl. I think her name was Michelle. She was a dainty, enchanting goddess while I was a nerdy, head–over–heels seventh–grader. I ended up writing something for her, something throwaway I can’t recall. She glanced it over, handed it back and said, “You know what I like about this? It’s dark and disturbing. You should do more.” Decades later, I wonder if I’m still trying to impress her as much as I yearned to then.
Whether or not Michelle would approve, you have in your possession seven of my dark tales, six of which were previously published and one not. A short introduction precedes each story just to set the stage a bit. Unless noted in the intro, the stories are as published.
Finally, as is customary, I’d like to offer thanks to the various editors who accepted my stories and often helped me to polish them to a much brighter luster. Make no mistake, editing for a commercial publication is one of the toughest jobs imaginable.
I also want to thank you, the reader. Your quest for entertainment, diversion or delight ensures writers like me stay challenged trying to deliver that satisfaction. I sincerely hope in the following pages you find multiple things impressive.
T.T. – Winter, 2011
CHAPERONE
Published in Fusion Fragment, July 2009
Chaperone is the signature story that inspired the cover for this anthology. Consider it your official welcome to dystopia, which you’ll discover is a theme I find irresistible.
I love a classic power struggle, contrasting those who have it versus those who don’t. The margins in between the two groups are often ripe for mischief, thus providing fertile soil for a good tale to sprout and blossom.
So if the future holds some kind of semi–oppressive society in store, wouldn’t the natural course of action be to begin conditioning its citizens early, say in the first few years of school? Train them. Break them in. Get them prepared for later years when the state exerts more control over choices and behavior.
While you’re at it, use that same conditioning window as a proving ground. This gives you the means to identify who are the candidates suitable to become members of your in–power group versus those who aren’t. We go to primary school today, in part, to become productive, contributing members of society, don’t we? Of course an oppressive state would twist that same goal to suit its own purposes.
Throw in some wireless, mind–connected technology and you’ve got Big Brother Goes to the Neighborhood School. Talk about no child left behind!
But if Big Brother starts watching in the primary school grades, what are the implications if you’re somebody who doesn’t particularly like Big Brother?
#
A half–eaten cookie and crumpled juice box drifted into Jeremy’s view through the green–green link.
*Aren’t you jealous?* George’s thought came. Five blocks away from where Jeremy lounged in his bedroom, his best friend’s stomach trumped something shiny and cool.
*Doofus. Look at the cards,* Jeremy urged back across the link. *Your stupid snack can wait.*
Too late.
Ghostly flavors tickled Jeremy’s tongue: oatmeal raisin dunked in strawberry kiwi. Bleech.
*Liked that, did you?*
*Way nasty. Your snacks really suck, George.*
*Payback. For when you sipped that cough stuff last week.* The juice box rose.
*Give! Please let me see them.*
The perspective shifted down and there they lay. Botwars cards, the new expansion set, fanned out on George’s floor. George’s fingers nudged the laser–etched rectangles apart, uncovering each Bot’s psycho–anime art and vital stats. In response, Jeremy’s fingers twitched at the cool, waxy sensation relayed across the link.
So many. And not one crap card in the bunch. His breath caught.
*Yeah, bring on that jealousy. Mmmmmm,* George purred. *And for you, some….*
Satisfaction struck Jeremy, not his own, but a reflection of the feeling experienced on the other end of the buddy link. It sizzled, like bacon frying.
Which deepened Jeremy’s envy and laced it with shame.
Which intensified the satisfaction beyond scorching—
*Give. Give!*
*Awww. Can’t I enjoy that another minute? After all, you got the last expansion set before I did.*
An itch tickled Jeremy’s shoulder blades. He focused on his own room: unmade twin bed, last night’s balled–up pajamas, forgotten candy wrapper, unopened school backpack, and standing in the door….
“Uh–oh.” Jeremy choked. *Gotta go.*
*Ooops. She looks pissed. See y—*
He snatched off the green neckset, a lightning bolt excision of George’s distant perceptions.
“Weren’t you supposed to be doing homework?”
“I was, Mom. Me and George. Spelling.” He blinked away neural fuzz residuals spawned by the abrupt disconnection.
“George and I.” She glared, not buying it. “I’ll take that. You take these.”
Blue and red necksets dangled from her fingertips, the training submissor and dominator pair. He surrendered the green neckset with a deep sigh.
Mom frowned. “Save it. You need your exercise. Much, much more in fact. Besides, it does Tiberius good to get out— Don’t roll those eyes at me.”
“It’s just… just… he really hates it.”
“It’s why we got him.”
True, but that didn’t change the fact Tiberius still despised it. Which made two of them.
“Mental Acuity Class starts next month,” she went on. “Ratings and placement tests happen six weeks after for the entire fourth grade.”
“Not for kids skipping till next year. Like George.”
Her frown deepened to the unyielding state.
“That’s between George and his parents, isn’t it? Jeremy, your father and I know you want to do well and place high. That means exercising. Often. Hard. Nothing in your life is more important than this.”
They knew what he wanted? What a laugh. The choice wasn’t his, though. Nothing he said made a difference anyway, so why bother?
“The dominator is preset,” Mom said. “Starting today, I want two–hour sessions, three times a week. No less. Get going.”
Out on the patio, Jeremy headed behind the detached garage, careful to stash the neckset pair behind his back, though he hadn’t been able to fool the dog after the first week. He rounded the corner and paused beside the dented dog bowls. Food sat untouched from that morn
ing, not counting a colony of red ants feasting on the soggy pellets. Yet another chore to deal with.
“Tibeeeriiiusss.”
From a stake set in the corner of the yard, a heavy chain snaked into the maw of the shabby doghouse.
“Here, boy. Come!”
No response.
Be that way.
He stomped over, heaved on the chain, and Tiberius emerged, legs locked against the strain. The dog skidded across the grass while growling a low protest. Jeremy tugged until the animal cowered at his feet. The sour stench of old urine filled his nostrils.
What kind of dog pees itself?
He clamped the enlarged blue submissor neckset over the band of shaved, nape fur. Dotted across the mutt’s taupe and white coat, matted tufts of fur dangled where they’d come loose. On its forelegs whole chunks were absent where exposed flesh glistened.
Or chews itself raw?
“You don’t look so good, boy.”
Another complaint rumbled in Tiberius’ throat.
“Growl at me, will you?”
Jeremy braced himself and slipped the red dominator over the back of his own neck. Ice jolted down his spine and smashed against his toes as dominator sought out submissor and linked. Jeremy grabbed control of the dog’s neural system.
*Time for a walk, Tiberius. Actually, make that a run.*
Tiberius squealed. The whine echoed in Jeremy’s ears and rang in stereo across their link.
*Yes, you hate this, don’t you? Me too, everything about it. What else can I do, though? Lots of hard exercise, she said, so let’s go.*
Chain off, gate open, the dog dashed across the drainage ditch and into the woods. Jeremy willed Tiberius to a breakneck pace and focused attention on his new sensory extension.
Awareness struck him: a knee–high point–of–view populated by too tall plants in wrong colors that looked bleached out.
Noises tangled in the world’s soundscape—crunch, crackle, chirp, buzz.
Thirst.
A growing urge to piss.
And the scents. More than any feeling he leached off Tiberius, intense smells seared his nasal cavity and clashed in his skull, so strong and severe, they hurt.
This sucked.
He despised most impressions that coursed over the red–blue link, particularly those too intense and raw. He couldn’t evict them, but with effort, he managed to ignore the worst. He made the effort.
Across the link, tantalizing deer bolted from a clearing. The dog yearned to pursue.
*Uh–uh, boy. You get to do laps.*
Tiberius could only whine.
Fifty circuits around the clearing, Jeremy stopped counting. When the dog felt nothing but exhaustion, he let the animal’s legs buckle. Deer soon wandered back, but Tiberius no longer desired the chase.
One successful round of domination completed, Mom.
*Good boy.*
Heavy wheezing came in response.
He ignored the fatigued dog long enough to deal with the backyard chores. The dominator’s chronometer registered only fifty minutes for the session. Plenty of time left for more fun. Right, Mom? Gotta pass M.A.C. and place high, after all. Nothing less will do.
*Wanna play chicken with the semi–rigs again, Tiberius?*
Apprehension shot through the link. The dog knew well that exciting game.
Jeremy trotted Tiberius toward the expressway, felt the anxiety surge, and with it, mounting strain on his control. When the rumble of big rigs touched the dog’s acute hearing, resistance peaked. Jeremy pounded his will through their connection.
*No! THIS way.*
One step forward.
*Good—*
Two steps away.
*I… said… NO!*
Another hour of this wasn’t worth it.
He knew, with supreme effort, he could force the dog where he wanted, but why bother, really? What good would it do either of them?
*Okay, boy. Let’s go sightseeing instead. Run!*
An hour later, Jeremy edged four aching paws up to a supper bowl brimming with fresh food. Tiberius had no desire to eat. It didn’t matter. Through Jeremy’s domination the dog crunched every pellet, one gag–making swallow after another.
Exercise completed.
Two whole hours. With many more to come. Way too many.
At the dinner table, he tugged his chair up to a heaping pile of spaghetti. Jeremy inhaled wisps of steam and choked on memories of rotten–chicken, sawdust, and dog saliva. He forced down a few nauseating bites at the occasional glare from Mom, and later thanked God she didn’t have a dominator handy as his near plateful of leftovers thudded into the trash can.
Before bed, he tucked the training necksets into their charging bay and contemplated the winking LEDs. Red collar. Blue collar. Controller. Controllee. Hard to say who hated their neckset the most, him or Tiberius.
***
Mom caught him heading out the door and kissed his cheek.
“Have a good day at school.”
“Is Dad up?” Jeremy glanced upstairs toward the private study.
“Yes, but he’s on early shift. And they doubled his load to 5,000 submissives, so you can’t bother him. Not even for a hug.”
“Oh.”
He turned away and tilted his head forward. He almost didn’t notice the cold blue plastic slipping around his neck along with her control, a feather’s stroke, settling across his mind.
At the end of the driveway, George sat parked astride his chrome Huffy. As his tires hit the street and hummed past, Jeremy stood on the pedals and yelled over his shoulder, “Race you.”
*I don’t think so, young man.* Mom’s admonishment boomed like a loudspeaker inside his skull.
Jeremy settled his butt back on the seat. George caught up and together they rode a nice, safe pace to the stoplight.
George wavered a moment before punching the crosswalk signal. Before them, streams of commuter cars roared by, a sliver of blue about the neck of each driver.
“I wonder if my dad’s dominating any of those.” Jeremy pictured 5,000 submissives as an army. A huge, rowdy one.
A momentary gap opened in the traffic but the ‘Don’t Walk’ still blazed.
“Should we go for it?” George said.
*You know the answer to that.*
“We wait.” Jeremy wondered if George’s mom had scolded him for the suggestion.
*Now, about that homework you two were supposed to be doing yesterday….*
Jeremy glanced at his friend.
“Spell ‘submerge’.”
George nailed it as the signal changed. A wave of cars slid to a halt a respectable distance behind the crosswalk, each driver poised and attentive, with two hands gripping the wheel.
Way to go, Dad. Or whoever.
They rode their bikes across and down the hill, crunching through autumn’s brittle leaf carpet.
“Spell ‘chaperone’.”
A moldy stench tickled Jeremy’s nose as George rattled off letters. Leaf rot stabbed Jeremy’s brain and fanned yesterday’s painful scents absorbed from the forest. The memories seemed more potent than the original odors.
“Spell….” Jeremy coughed. “Spell ‘despise’.”
“Huh?”
At the base of the hill, the school came into view. George recited the word.
“Spell ‘unwilling’.”
“You shouldn’t—”
“Go on.”
*What are you doing, young man?*
“U–N–W–I–L–L–I–N–G.”
“Spell ‘hopeless’ and use it in a sentence.”
*Enough, Jeremy. Don’t make me dominate you hard.*
“Skip it,” Jeremy said.
They glided to the bike racks and locked their wheels together. George glared at him until Jeremy pointed at his own submissor and glanced once toward home.
They joined kids in the arrival line and wove their way into the school. At the check counter, a skinny, fifth–grader thrust her
hand at Jeremy.
“Name?”
“Jeremy Small.” He reached for his submissor.
*Goodbye, Jer—* Mom vanished into fuzz. He dropped his neckset in the fifth–grader’s sweaty palm.
“Jeremy Small. Check–in at 7:31.” The fifth–grader twisted to a rack of necksets behind her, yanked one off, and placed his in the vacated slot. “You’re on team yellow today. NEXT!”
He accepted the blue neckset that bore wide yellow stripes and stepped aside. George got the same treatment before joining him.
“Next time, why don’t you make those words a little more obvious? That way, my mom might figure it out faster.”
“Sorry,” Jeremy said. “Couldn’t control myself.”
“You’re lucky your mom didn’t take care of that.”
“Yeah.”
“So it didn’t go good?”
“Nope. I gotta do M.A.C. this year. My parents won’t let me wait like yours.”
“Sorry.” George raised the school’s neckset over his head and held it. “Those fake spelling words… you really feel that way?”
“You’ve been green–linking with me long enough. Couldn’t you tell by now?”
“Some. I always thought so, but… green–green isn’t like the feelings you get off red–blue. Can’t hide strong feelings with blue on, unless red doesn’t care to notice.”
“Then, yeah. I really feel that way. If you don’t believe me, I’ll wear blue some time for your red so you can tell for sure.”
George shuddered. “Eeeww. I believe you. See you at dismissal.” He slipped on the neckset.
Jeremy braced himself and donned his own. School equipment cut–in always felt abrupt, like the set needed tuning in a bad way. The base of his brain tingled. He staggered and bumped shoulders with George.
*Welcome! It’s day 46 of your fourth grade education at PS1984. Your progress so far has been…
“Please, please, don’t let it be Stephanie.” Jeremy crossed his fingers. “She’s such a stupid idiot.”
*Good morning, Jeremy. Nice to see you again.*
