The Loop Read online

  Then one day he wasn’t the same Maddox anymore. His body had begun to reject the prosthetics; the tissue became infected. They took him away on the Dark Train for observations, and he never came back.

  That’s the risk we take when we accept the Delays. You pray for a nanotech trial, a vaccination, or a cosmetic injection that removes all body hair or changes your eye color, but every now and then an inmate is taken away for their Delay and when they return, and the back wall opens for exercise—you can hear them screaming in agony because the doctors took their legs or their lungs or their heart and replaced it with something new, something robotic.

  The Delays are for the benefit of the Alts. The trials exist to test new products that make the lives of the wealthy better; all of us in the Loop, we’re just guinea pigs for the rich.

  I think about Maddox, how he guided me through those first few weeks after the trial, after Happy had adjudged me morally aware of my actions and culpable for my crimes.

  Maddox spoke to me on my fourth day in the Loop, the first day I had dared to set foot into the yard for more than a moment. We’d spoken about the Delays, how it made more sense to decline and accept our execution rather than bending to the government’s will, but we both knew that it was near impossible to refuse. Choosing death spits in the face of hope, and—despite how desperate things are—hope remains.

  When my first real Delay (after the mandatory first surgery in which anti-escape technology is implanted) came six months later, I’d stared at the screen for a long time, knowing that one day I’d accept the Delay contract and it would be an amputation, a bone replacement, a new synthetic type of blood to replace my own, and it would fail and I’d die screaming in agony. The scientists at the Facility, where the Delays are administered, don’t do mercy kills. They bring the patient in for observation, then watch them 24/7 until they die. They don’t even offer pain relief—they study every second of footage from the cameras, watching as the body rejects the new limb, or the new pancreas malfunctions, or the reinforced veins split open. They record the patient’s levels of pain and how their body reacts to the failure of the experiment, and then they adjust the trial and run it again with another inmate.

  They say it’s worse in the Block. They say Delays come every six weeks instead of every six months. The Block is a newer facility that they finished building seven years ago. Not much is known about what goes on in there, but there are rumors, horrifying rumors, about torture and pain and conditions far worse than the Loop. Inmates are sent to the Block when they turn eighteen. I have 730 days until it’s my turn.

  I push down all thoughts of Delays and the Block and death sentences and Maddox, and just run. At last, I collapse against the dividing wall between my and what used to be Maddox’s exercise yards. I suck in the warm air, and I wonder what breathing must be like for the Alts; the Mechanized Oxygen Replenishment systems replace oxygen in the bloodstream seven times more efficiently than their original lungs, and the Automated Pulmonary Moderators where their hearts used to be clean and pump blood through their veins soundlessly.

  The superhumans, the cyborgs, the Altered; the ones who look down on us Regulars like we’re nothing.

  * * *

  I’ve almost caught my breath when I hear a few words from a conversation a few exercise yards over to the left. I push myself to standing and move to the wall on the other side. Amid the singing and yells, beneath the sounds of Tyco Roth’s relentless screamed death threats, I catch snippets of a boy and a girl talking about something that’s going on in the outside world. I recognize the voices; it’s Alistair George and Emery Faith.

  “They’re talking about unrest, as though the Regulars are going to rise up …” Alistair is saying, but his Irish accent blends into the chaos, and the end of the sentence is inaudible.

  “How?” Emery replies. “How would that even work? It’s an unwinnable fight.”

  “There’s talk of war. They’re saying that …” Again I lose track of Alistair’s voice.

  “Alistair, there hasn’t been a war in a hundred years.”

  “No, but what about all those people who have gone missing from the city? I heard they’re hiding in the Red Zones. What if they …”

  I strain to hear more, try to catch a full sentence amid the cacophony of sound, but the conversation is interrupted by sirens wailing out over the yard followed by the voice of Happy, informing us that we have one minute to return to our rooms. Just to remind us of what will happen if we disobey the order, the drones that sit on top of the center pillar float up into the sky, weapons scanning from one inmate to another. I hear the last goodbyes, the last notes of Pander’s singing, and the last yells from Tyco as the inmates of the Loop make their way back to their cells for another day of silence and solitude.

  I sit on my bed as the wall closes, and try to savor the sound of the breeze before the silence returns.

  I think about the conversation between Emery and Alistair. They were talking about war in the outside world, but that’s impossible: The world is regulated by one government, and that government is counseled by Happy’s irrefutable logic. There’s another reason to dismiss the rumors—there’s no way that two inmates of the Loop would have information from the outside world anyway. There are no visiting hours, no television broadcasts, no Lenses, no LucidVision, not even VR, and although Happy is the operating system that all these devices use, there’s no way of accessing the information, even through the screen. The only face-to-face human contact we have is with the warden, Wren, whom the government requires to come around once a day to deliver the afternoon meal. This is considered an act of compassion from the authorities (advised, of course, by Happy) and keeps the people satisfied that criminals are not treated entirely like animals.

  The last time I saw anyone from the outside world who wasn’t a warden, a guard, or a doctor in the Facility was as the Marshals dragged me out of my home—that person was my sister, Molly, who was crying and pleading with me not to go.

  That was my last day of freedom; I was taken to the station, where I confessed to my crimes. I was tried by Happy and then taken to the Facility, where they cut first into my wrists, implanting a magnetic core coiled in cobalt, and then into my chest, where they attached the device to my heart. This was my first Delay—every inmate of the Loop is subject to this surgery, as it’s how they control us and how they prevent riots and escape attempts.

  I fight off these thoughts; they are unhappy memories of the end of my real life and the beginning of this routine, this repetition of days where nothing ever happens and nothing ever changes and, if the World Government has its way, nothing ever will.

  “Happy,” I say, glancing to the screen.

  “Yes, Inmate 9-70-981?” the screen replies.

  “Panoptic playback: Day 733 in the Loop. Time: 11:45 a.m.”

  “Right away,” the screen replies. The stats and figures melt away and are replaced by the footage from the Panoptic camera implanted in my head. I hear my heavy breathing as I finish my final sprint from the pillar to the door. The footage ambles over to the joining wall and collapses.

  “Yo, Maddox.” My own voice, calling out over Tyco’s screams and Pander’s singing, is met by silence. “Maddox, you there?”

  As I watch the footage, I feel the hurt creeping up on me again, but I fight against the tears this time.

  Finally, I hear it, Maddox’s voice, weak and broken.

  “I think they finally got me, Luke,” he says, the words trembling over the wall.

  “What are you talking about?” I hear my own voice come back, full of humor, sure that my friend was messing with me.

  “I don’t think I’m going to make it to the Block. Probably a good thing.”

  I watch the footage, remembering the way my already-racing heart had begun to sprint inside my chest as the reality sank in.

  “Maddox, what’s going on?”

  “The eyes, Luke, they’re not taking.”

  Maddox
had been the only person who could get away with calling me Luke, and hearing him say it again is too much for me.

  “Stop footage,” I say, my voice hitching against the onrushing emotion. “Playback. Day 4 in the Loop. Time: 11:30 a.m.”

  “Of course,” the screen replies.

  I watch the footage. Me tentatively stepping out into the yard, physically shaking as the screaming voice of Tyco Roth promises to kill me.

  “That you, new guy?” Maddox’s voice calls out.

  I look over to the bare dividing wall. The footage shows this. I stay silent.

  “My name’s Maddox, and I’m guessing you’re the Luka Kane that the psychopath keeps yelling about? Ignore him, he’s clearly got a goddamned screw rattling around in that empty head.”

  I walk over to the wall, placing a hand against the metal. “Yes, I … I’m Luka Kane.”

  “Luka Kane,” Maddox repeats, “nice to finally meet you, neighbor.”

  “Why does that boy want me dead?” My voice, so hollow and scared. So young.

  “Who the hell knows?” Maddox replies, so bright and self-assured. “Who the hell cares? He can’t get to you.”

  “Inmate 9-70-981,” Happy interrupts me as I watch the screen, “you have two minutes of your daily allowance of memories remaining.”

  “Playback,” I reply. “Day 6 in the Loop. Time: 11:39 a.m.”

  “Of course,” Happy says.

  The new footage is displayed: the yard, the joining wall, Maddox’s voice coming over to me.

  “The thing is, you might as well get used to this place, Luke, old friend. Relax, get comfortable. If you’re really unlucky, you’ll be here for a very long time.”

  “Unlucky?” I hear myself reply, my voice now more recognizable than the terrified, unsteady stutter from Day 4.

  “That’s right,” Maddox declares. “We’re rats in a lab, man. There’s nothing good waiting for us at the end of all this.”

  “So why bother taking the Delays?”

  He’d laughed then. “I ask myself that every time. Do you know how they do it? How they execute us?”

  “I assumed it was the heart trigger,” I say.

  “They use Deleters. Have you ever seen one? They look like big tennis rackets without strings, but if any part of you goes through the middle, it gets erased into tiny, microscopic pieces. Next Delay, let’s see if you’ve got the willpower to face Deletion.”

  The screen fades to black. “You have reached your daily allowance of memories.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Can I have some privacy?”

  “Of course,” Happy says, and the screen goes blank.

  I tell myself to stop reminiscing about Maddox. Thinking about him over and over won’t do any good, it won’t bring him back.

  I lie back on my bed and grab my book from beneath my pillow. Within five words I have disappeared back into the vivid world, and I’m immersed fully. This is better than the Lens could ever be, better even than LucidVision and its dream-manipulation technology.

  Two hours pass before the sliding panel in the door to my room opens and I hear Wren’s voice.

  “Happy birthday, Luka.”

  I’m snapped out of the story, but I can’t help smiling at the sound of her voice.

  Wren started at the Loop just over a year ago. The warden before her was a bitter old man named Forrest Hamlet who would spend approximately five seconds yelling questions at me before shoving the afternoon meal through the gap in my door, slamming the hatch shut, and disappearing for another day. But the truly horrible thing about Forrest was that I actually looked forward to seeing him. The Loop taught me to never underestimate the power of loneliness; it can make you miss even the most horrible circumstances.

  Wren is different, though. Yes, she’s an Alt, but she’s not like the others; she genuinely cares about the inmates and our mental health.

  “Thanks,” I reply, sitting up and turning to face her.

  “How’s the book?” she asks, her blonde hair falling perfectly across her green eyes.

  “Amazing,” I tell her, marking my place with the piece of fabric I tore from a pillowcase and putting it down. “Really amazing, one of the best so far.”

  “Yeah, I love that one,” she says, smiling. Her smile is so beautiful; of course it is, she’s an Alt, which means her parents paid for her to be beautiful and genetically flawless before she was born, along with at least a dozen technological improvements, but for some reason that smile seems so real, so natural. “Wait until you read his fantasy series, it might be his best.”

  “Can’t wait,” I say.

  Wren stretches her arm through the hatch—this is forbidden, and the screen on my wall turns red and Happy’s voice speaks firmly: “Infiltration. Lockdown in five seconds, four, three …”

  I stand up quickly when I see the red-and-silver wrapping paper covering the small parcel in Wren’s hand. I take it and stare at it as she withdraws her arm and the warning voice ceases.

  “A present?” I ask, peering through the hatch.

  “It’s your birthday,” she replies, shrugging.

  “I didn’t think …” I start, but I don’t finish my sentence; instead, I tear off the paper.

  “It’s just another book,” she says, “but it’s a really good one.”

  I turn the hardback over in my hands. The cover is green and depicts stems of grass in a field. I read the title: The Fellowship of the Ring.

  “It’s the first in a trilogy,” she tells me. “I think you’ll really like it.”

  “It’s amazing,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll get to it as soon as I finish this one.” I nod to the book on my bed. “Do you want any of these back?”

  I gesture to the small mountain of books at the foot of my bed, and Wren shakes her head.

  “You ask me that every day.” She laughs. “Keep them; I get ten for one Coin at Vintage.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  Wren nods, and I realize—not for the first time—that these books, which seem like priceless treasures to me, are really nothing of worth to the outside world, where technology and complete immersion are king.

  “I’m sure,” she says. “So, how have you been?”

  Wren and I spend the next ten minutes talking about how my favorite skate team is doing in the outside world, any good movies she’s seen recently, her ambitions to become a virtual architect, and how she’s been studying code in her free time, and before long it’s time for her to go. She hands me a sandwich for my lunch and says goodbye.

  And this is the saddest part of my day: the second the hatch closes and I know that I won’t see Wren for another twenty-four hours. It’s not even three in the afternoon, and I have nothing to do but read and wait for the energy harvest to begin.

  Alone in the silence, I find myself thinking about how hard my time in prison would have been without Wren. Before Forrest retired, I had been imprisoned for almost a year, and I had felt the weight of the Loop pressing down on me. I felt every second of every hour stretching out into infinity, and I thought that I would lose my mind.

  Then one day as the hatch opened and I lay on my bed waiting to hear the gruff voice of Forrest Hamlet, a voice that didn’t suit his aging but handsome Alt face, yelling government-approved questions at me, instead Wren said, “Hi, I’m Wren. I’m the new warden.”

  I think I felt a moment of hope, a little spark in my chest when I sat up and saw her smiling at me, impossibly green eyes glowing bright the way Alts’ do, wide smile revealing perfect white teeth. I said hi back, and we talked—nothing particularly deep or meaningful, just friendly words. How are you? What’s your name? How long have you been in here? It felt like she cared.

  I fell in love with her the first time she gave me a book. It was such a simple gesture. “Just something to pass the time,” she’d said, and then laughed as I stared at the black cover with a red silhouetted wolf howling to the sky. She
said that I was looking at it like it was a cup of ice water in a desert, and I told her that it was. A pretty weak reply, but she smiled. The book was The Call of the Wild by Jack London, an ancient novel about a dog who joins a pack of wolves. I loved it and can still quote it from memory. I read it twice before she returned the next day with another book.

  After that, Wren brought me a new book almost every day. She took time out of her life to go online, using her Lens to enter the Mall—a gigantic virtual shopping center with over four million stores—and go to one of the antique shops and choose a new book for me, a book that would be delivered by drone to her home within an hour of purchase. She was selfless, kind, nice. She was unlike any Alt I’d ever met.

  Wren saved me from the insanity that infects a lot of the inmates in this place. I hear them during the exercise hour, babbling nonsense into the air, unable to adapt from their hyperstimulated life in the outside world to the agonizing solitude of the Loop.

  I’m still staring at the hatch where Wren was five minutes before, smiling at my own good luck that she came along. I eat my sandwich and hold on to this good feeling for as long as I can.

  * * *

  At 5 p.m., the screen displays my dinner options, and I select soup and bread, which arrives through the panel a few seconds later. I eat, and then at 5:25 p.m., the screen tells me to stand in the circle of light that has appeared on the floor of my cell. I sigh; it’s time for the energy harvest.

  In the moments leading up to the harvest, it’s not Happy’s voice that comes through the screen but Galen Rye’s.

  “Please remove all items of clothing,” he says, the usual approachable tone gone from his voice.

  Refusal is an option, but the punishment is drone poison. I pull the Velcro straps of my shoes loose (no laces allowed in the Loop) and kick them onto my bed. I pull apart the Velcro fastener of my plain white jumpsuit and slide it down my body. It joins my shoes on the bed, and I stand there, naked. Galen’s voice returns: “Keep your hands by your sides and legs together. Inmate, know that the energy harvest is part of your punishment. Know that criminality will not be tolerated. Know that your suffering will act as a deterrent to those outside prison who are considering a life of crime.”