CHAPTER 05
Lady Latikos
#
Caste Martilign
“Qui gladium tenet.”
Protocaste
Date of Creation: March 1st, 2080
Ability: Omni-able (Specialized)
Gender: Homme-male
Birth-capable: No
Mean Height: 7’0″
Mean Weight: 300 lbs
Mean Intelligence: IQ 100
Mean Reaction Time: 160 ms
Mean Bone Mineral Density: T 4.1
Mean Cardiac Output: 11.7 L/min
The Compendium of Humanity Renewed
#
From a balcony, two miles above the unused paved streets of Sacramento, I watch over the skyscrapers as the swollen sun slowly descends toward the horizon. The sunsets of the twenty-third century are a deep pink. Taabia told me it’s due to pollution in the atmosphere done before The Arbiters intervention. Daily, the vivid spectacle serves as a beautiful yet eerie reminder of how close we came to destroying our world… at least, that’s the sentiment we’re supposed to hold.
Bathed in the pink glow, aircars fly in defined pathways through the air as if following intricate invisible arteries branching throughout Central Sacramento. In their cabins, castes commute home after a busy Friday of serving their Arbiter-prescribed purposes.
To my left, an Observer rises silently to the level of my balcony and stares at me for a moment with its cold, glassy aperture. I’ve become used to the things, or, as used to them as one can get knowing that their every move is being scrutinized by an AI of incredible intelligence and power. It stares at me for a brief moment — the time required for its hyperspectral camera array to scan and copy my mind — then it shoots off at sixty miles per hour into a stream of traffic. The black marble weaves swiftly and without error between the high-speed aircars. I wonder if it’s possible to forget your seatbelt enough times that The Arbiter throws you in Vindicaste.
It has been six days since I awoke in that pod, in this nubile, vulnerable body. Tomorrow, my Acclimation will be complete. I’ll be stamped ready to enter this twisted world and serve the purpose of Caste Imponign. Vecordia and I will be transported by aircar to Sacramento International and flown over 4000 miles east to Ekho City — the ocean-girded metropolis that the clan that bought us calls home.
Behind me, a panel of glass whispers as it slides sideways, allowing someone out onto the balcony with me. His footfalls are so heavy that I don’t need to turn around.
“Curfew’s half an hour early tonight,” Eiron says in his predictable, bored, and to-the-point way. What isn’t expected is him placing his hands on the concrete balustrade, joining me at the edge. I look up to my right. He looks somberly out over the city, his rough features strange in the deep pink light. “How are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m surprised you care,” I reply. He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare out. I reconsider my terseness. “I’m sorry,” I sigh, dropping my elbows onto the balustrade. “It’s just… Do you do this with every Deutercaste you get stuck with? Pretend to care, I mean.”
“Fair question,” he answers. “This job would be impossible if I gave a half damn about every Sabi and Impo I watch go through the doors.” He turns his sturdy head to look down at me. “But I’m not pretending. There’s something…” he hesitates, “special about you.”
“‘Special’!?” I scoff, acting as if I interpreted the comment as a flirtation. I know he’s not, but with my fifty years of slavery starting tomorrow, I’m feeling flippant. “You’re barking up the wrong Imponign.” I nod behind us to the glass walls leading back into the tower. Vecordia, her jumpsuit unzipped to her ginger pubic hair, sits cross-legged behind a pane she’s fogged up with her breath, doodling strange symbols upon it with her index finger. She lost her balcony privileges two days ago when she came dangerously close to clearing the upper edge of the invisible pressure field that keeps the high-altitude winds out and the potentially suicidal Imponigns in.
“I’m not kidding,” Eiron continues, impervious to my tease. “And it’s not just me who thinks so. All the tower staff have been talking about you and…” he hesitates again, “Kaelos.”
Noonus had told me mine and Kaelos’s situation was more than a little unique, but what more is there to be said about it than that?
“All the tower staff?” I ask, turning from the view to face him. “How interesting can a double transposition be?”
“It’s not just a double transposition, Skoeli. The two of you were transposed Martilign and Imponign. It’s unheard of. It’s like… I don’t know… a restaurant serving T-bones and cotton candy.” Kurtköy travesti I’m almost amused by the dumb analogy, but the mention of food tends to put me in a sour mood nowadays. “Some of the others have looked but can’t find a single other case on record similar to yours,” he continues. “It goes against everything we’re told about the Retribution System. The reason anyone does what they’re supposed to is because they’re making their psyches more capable of being transposed into a higher caste after death, at least, that’s what we’re all told.” He turns to face me, his great body dwarfing mine. “But you — your archive was not only capable, but The Arbiter decided it deserving of both a Deutercaste and Protocaste life. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Oh… do I threaten your worldview?” I ask snidely. I’m aware that I must be experiencing one of Caste Imponign’s frequent mood swings, but it kinda rubs me the wrong way that Eiron wants to express how disturbing he finds mine and Kaelos’s mere existence to me when I had the misfortune of being the one transposed as a slave. “Why don’t you go interrogate him for some answers?”
He frowns. “You know that’s not what I’m doing,” he says in a placating tone that’s very unusual for him. Working here, I suppose he has to know how to handle moody Imponigns when brute force isn’t an option. He looks again over the city and distant mountain line, thoughtfully, as if contemplating whether to say more. “Kaelos…” he begins. “Between the two of you, he’s the one causing the real stir…”
I give him a grunt as I shift myself away.
“He…” Eiron grimaces as if merely thinking about it is a crime. “He’s been saying things he shouldn’t about The Arbiter.”
That peeks my interest enough to look sideways at him. “Go on.”
“He’s been insisting for his entire Acclimation that he… and you, are not supposed to be here. That something went wrong. That The Arbiter made…” he looks around for Observers, “a mistake.”
It’s not lost on me the connotations making such a claim has in this world. If there’s one thing I’ve been taught throughout Acclimation, it is that The Arbiter does not make mistakes. If an Observer is listening when you suggest such a thing — and multiple most certainly are — you are practically buying a ticket for your next life in Low-Deuter or even Vindicaste.
“And that’s why everyone’s been talking about us?” I ask.
“It’s not just that he’s been saying it, Skoeli. It’s that some people believe it, at least a little. They’d never tell you this in Acclimation, but there have been… doubts, for years — probably since the creation of caste Ambinign in ’88 about the… integrity of The Arbiter.”
“Ambinigns?” I repeat. “Which ones are they again?”
“The tall gals, with both sets of equipment.”
“Right… Why did they make people doubt The Arbiter? I thought they were supposed to be the feminine version of your caste.”
Eiron shakes his head. “That’s what they might teach you. But not how it is in reality. We’re supposed to believe that every caste is vital to the further development of humanity. When Caste Sabinign was created it caused some stir. It seemed… decadent to create an entire caste specializing in sensual pleasure and servitude, but at least a big part of their purpose was to incubate corpora — they took some of the burden off the Fertiligns and Amoriligns. When Caste Imponign was created, people became even more skeptical. Your kind are like the Sabies minus the ovaries. But the Viries enjoyed being able to get their rocks off without risking pregnancy and the Magnacaste femmes enjoyed dressing you up enough that Imponigns were accepted for the most part. So it wasn’t until Caste Ambinign that folks decided things had gone too far and began to organize their dissent.”
“What’s so bad about them?”
“Have you ever met an Ambi?” he asks. I shake my head. “They’re not as strong as a Marti, they’re not as suited to give birth as a Ferti, they’re not as virile as a Viri, they’re about as dumb as an Agro and less than half as obedient, despite being Deutercaste.”
“So… you’re saying they have no purpose?”
“If they do, they certainly aren’t performing it. General crime has increased significantly in the forty years since their creation. They’re walking trouble with big tits. And yet, The Arbiter orders just as many be transposed each year.”
I’m only just realizing how strange the lack of Ambies is in the professional setting of the AoH tower, given they make up a fairly reasonable percentage of the population if I’m remembering from my classes correctly.
“What is it that Kaelos has been saying exactly?”
“Things that he shouldn’t know — information that only Logoligns or The Arbiter itself would know.”
“Like!?” I press, remembering my dream — how I knew the street address of the AoH tower, seemingly from Kurtköy travestileri my pre-Redux life.
“Well, for starters — on his third day, his guide was taking him to Martilign Combat Training. She said he pressed some sort of code into the panel and instead of taking them to the training terrace on level 501, it took them to floor -007 — a level none of us knew existed.”
“What was down there!?” I ask with desperate curiosity. All of this is only confirming the authenticity of my dream. Not just that I worked here, but that I had to be someone of importance if I knew about an entire secret level.
“Don’t know,” Eiron sighs. “Logoligns accompanied by Sparties locked off the elevator and whisked him and his guide up for questioning. We haven’t seen her since. His new guide is a ghostly-looking Patho who won’t let anyone near him unless necessary. No one’s ever seen a Patholign on guide duty before.”
Five minutes ago, the silver lining of the start of my Petenta was that I’d finally be leaving this slave-grooming tower. Now, leaving feels like the last thing I want to do. I’m so close to telling Eiron about my dream, but I decide against it. I won’t see him again after tomorrow. Even if he was willing, what good could he possibly do for me between now and the morning?
“Do you know what’s going to happen to Kaelos?” I ask.
“A clan is taking him in. Razboi, I think.”
“They don’t care about the things he’s been saying?”
“We Marties are valued based on two criteria — our ability to follow orders, and our physical strength. Despite lacking in the former, your brother is one of the strongest Marties I’ve met.” He pulls up his shirt, revealing his beefy abdomen and rippled laterals. A huge, purple bruise covers half of his side under the armpit from his struggle with Kaelos in the auditorium. I wince, imagining the pain.
“Maybe… I can apologize on his behalf?”
“No need, he apologized himself after he’d calmed down.”
That makes me smile. I’m glad to hear that at least the other me isn’t an asshole… just dangerously unhinged and in possession of forbidden knowledge. “Did he tell you why he wanted to find me so badly?”
“He doesn’t seem to know for sure himself, he just insists that it’s something important. Maybe he’s remembered since, but like I said, that Patho won’t let any of us get too close.”
I breathe a resigned sigh, understanding that despite all this, there is nothing I can do to change the fact that by tomorrow evening I will be half a world away. I turn back to the balcony’s edge. Eiron turns to leave, but I stop him. “This is probably the last time we’re going to see each other, isn’t it?” I ask.
“I think so,” he says somberly.
“Do you… mind staying out here with me until curfew?”
Without another word, Eiron takes his place next to me, and together, we watch the setting of the pink sun.
#
We are awoken early on Saturday. Vecordia and I are ordered out into the hallway to join a growing line of groggy Imponigns. Our tiredness quickly turns to anxiousness as we are led down passages of Imponign Block we’ve never before been. Four Viries and two Marties escort our company of about four dozen graduates. Eiron nor Vecordia seem to be among the staff. Those of us who put on our jumpsuits before being pulled out are ordered to strip nude. I nearly trip over kicking my jumpsuit back off while simultaneously keeping up with the crowd. Naturally, Vecordia is one of the Impos who didn’t bother getting dressed in the first place.
We arrive, a naked flock of petite bodies, perky breasts, and flaccid indicators, at a checkpoint. We are lined in a single file and processed individually through a pair of doors. We murmur amongst ourselves, speculating about what might await us beyond them.
When it’s my turn to pass through, I find myself in a vast, circular room lined with banners and stone statues of Martiligns carved as if they are supporting the rim of the domed ceiling. Along the room’s perimeter are raised seats along which various Protocaste and Magnacaste sit. I spot Noonus and Sorovan sitting together among them. A Martilign escort guides me, his hand on my back, to the center of the room. The room is constructed primarily of stone rather than steel and concrete and bears a mixture of archaic motifs. It’s hard to believe this place exists within the Archive of Humanity tower.
With me at the center, a hollow cylinder of smooth white metal is raised to my waist from the stone floor. I look down it’s hollow. Strips of orange light simmer within.
My body tingles as I feel its vulnerability, exposed before the congregation. I do my best to concentrate on anything but the Marti guard standing behind me. My Impo instincts threaten to reemerge and the last thing I want is to start leaking in front of everyone.
“Fertilign Travesti kurtköy Adaria Noonus,” a lean, gaunt-faced, older man with short dark hair says. “Do you confirm the caste before us to be IMPN-372229?” His drawl is the epitome of authority. He’s the first Logolign I’ve seen in the flesh.
“I confirm,” Noonus replies disinterestedly from where she sits askew in her seat, spinning her stylus along her fingers. Bureaucracy clearly bores psychopaths. She must wish she was back in her lab, taking delight in transposing more unfortunates into this perverse world.
The Logolign stares down at me. Raised above all others, he is seated directly ahead, above the doors I must pass through as if he is their guardian. The insecurity, inferiority, and vulnerability his gaze elicits in me eclipses that of Leppia.
“Imponign Skoeli,” he bellows down. “This day — July eleventh, 2229 — marks the beginning of your Deutercaste Petenta to Clan Latikos. For fifty years will you be subject to the order of the aforementioned, specifically your proprietor — Virilign Kasper Latikos. From this day forward until the completion of your Petenta, unless transferred to another clan or dominion via the Deutercaste Exchange, you will be known, henceforth, as Imponign Skoeli, Helot of Clan Latikos. May you strive through your servitude to bring prosperity to your master and your clan.” He nods softly.
“Put your arm in it.” The Martilign orders from behind me. I look down at the cylinder. I don’t dare to hesitate, not in front of this audience. I reach into the barrel of the thing. Once I’m elbow deep, an aperture contracts around my thin bicep, preventing me from pulling my arm back out. Fear takes hold, and I’m sure that if it weren’t for my Imponign inability to flee mortal danger, I’d be frantically writhing like a rabbit caught in a trap. I feel my skin begin to tingle near the wrist.
“By The Arbiter, you are declared…” the Logolign continues. Just then the tingling on my skin transforms into a searing pain. I grit my teeth and whimper as a high-frequency whine resonates from within the cylinder. “—Imponign!” the Logolign announces with a dramatic gesture. The cylinder releases my arm and I stagger backward, clutching my wrist with the other hand before bumping into the Marti’s stomach. Down my wrist is a tattoo, half-inked, half-burned into my flesh. It is identical to the one on Taabia’s — the bold letters IMPN down the stem of Caste Imponign’s symbol.
“Your life begins now, Imponign Skoeli, Helot of Clan Latikos. Proceed through the doors.”
#
The width of two football fields, the airdock of level 400 is an expanse of hanging platforms, walkways, and landing pads. Flying vehicles of all sizes, come and go like bees to and fro a hive. My generation of Impos — now, all modestly redressed in our yellow jumpsuits — is corralled into a designated area of the vast bay. We are watched by baton-equipped guards — any of whom could kill any one of us with a single strike should they swing a little too hard — as we wait for our respective guides to arrive and escort us to a departure point.
Most Impos have found contracts working for middling companies, performing mostly menial jobs while also probably being expected to present their orifices on the side. They tend to be attractive enough, but not in any way that’s very unique.
The unluckier, or, not-as-pretty Imponigns have been bought by brothels and escort businesses, to be used almost exclusively for their erotic offerings. Taabia told me about this one company called Cloud Nine that delivers Impo and Sabi prostitutes via automated aircars to the balcony doorsteps of the United America’s vertical cities. They are one of the few prostitute-delivery services that will deliver to Omega districts — the first forty or so stories closest to ground level, often slums, sketchy apartments, nightclubs, and crime-riddled rat-ways. Cloud Nine has become notorious for not even alerting authorities when one of their girls fails to return to the drop-off point to be taken home. Instead, they just buy a replacement.
The really unlucky among us have failed to find a buyer of any sort, and now default to becoming the property of the state. To be used as hardly more than breathing stress relief and communal bed companions for the Marties and ever-horny Viries that serve the United Americas Defense Force. They wait, about seven girls at the far back, huddled together as if they think there’s safety to be found in numbers. No doubt the moment they step off their government transport van it will be to face their respective destinies of guaranteed sexual torment alone.
A scant few Impos, like me and Vecordia, have won the attention of the elite — philanthropists, real-estate moguls, hedge-fund managers, political figures — in my case, an heir to a prominent clan. Our group could be considered either the luckiest or unluckiest, depending on whether you get a kind but socially unattuned tech industry leader who just wants someone cute to watch retro movies with or a corrupt politician who needs someone to tie up, lash, and fuck after a long day of pretending to be a moral and righteous human.
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