Short Fiction: The Lost Operative…

The following is a short story I plan to post in pieces as I grind away at an intriguing plot. Comments are welcome.


Prologue:


Born free… What a joke. Philosophers will argue about the foundations of human rights and the formation of the social contract from an idea that we are all born as free individuals, at least in some obscure thought experiment denoting a state of nature without central government. Not me. I've never been free. I was born in captivity. They call this place Third Utopia. Who knows why they call it the "third" utopia, but I can only guess that there must have been others. I'm sure whoever started this travesty was making a literary reference to Thomas Moore judging by how our community operates, but for me the name is entirely ironic. I've read Moore's book, and although it describes a rather juvenile utopia that might have worked in a culture without conflicting history to destroy it, this place is almost certainly my prison. I say "almost," because I still haven't figured out what the ends of this place are. By ends, I mean its purpose. I'm reasonably sure that I am part of the means toward the purpose of Third Utopia, and Immanuel Kant would agree with me that if this is the case, Third Utopia is nothing but a deceptively clever amoral institution.


My name is Subject 81. As far as I can tell, I used to be someone else. Wish I knew who that someone was, but that identity is long gone. You know what they say in Buddhist philosophy? That your identity is simply an event in time, and that there never was a REAL "self" in the permanent sense of the word. You weren't the same person you were ten years ago, five years ago, an hour ago, or one second ago. This is because your identity is holistic in nature, and is composed of sensory experience and mental states caused by that sensory experience. That means with every new experience including mental states, you're a different person all the time. I guess that's me then. But I think Buddhism got it wrong. There certainly is a personal identity we value as we acquire new memories and use those memories to define ourselves. Perhaps this kind of attachment to who we are is the cause of dukkha, the Buddhist concept of suffering and dissatisfaction… But I don't know who I am now, and I can tell you with certainty that it has brought me no peace. I am a prisoner who can't remember his crime. Maybe there wasn't one. Maybe I'm just an experiment. I hope not. All I can tell you is that every morning I wake up and ask "who am I?" It's the first question we begin to answer to secure our place in this chaotic world. Someone decided that I didn't need to answer this question anymore. But I have a secret… Whatever I can't remember about who I used to be, I seem to be far more intelligent than anyone else here. I have a wide range of knowledge about how to read people, deceive people, gather intelligence, martial arts and combat training, and for some reason a modest education in literature, philosophy, and political science. Whoever I was, I used to have a purpose that was my own. Right now my purpose is to discover why I'm here, and to find the true ends of Third Utopia. Oh yeah, and escape of course.


Chapter 1


I cannot remember ever being free, and before we jump into a philosophical debate, I also don't know how I know what the concept of freedom is. Maybe it's simply an a priori idea, one that's known and craved for as soon as we develop critical thought? Anyway, I awoke in a well-lit bedroom. I surmise I was in my mid-thirties when this happened. I'm not even sure how long I'd been there. For all I know, I've been here all of my life. Who says they can't create a new identity every week? My hair was cut in a military fashion, and I wore black fatigues and a dark grey T-shirt. By some habit I can't remember developing, I immediately started to pin down facts about my environmental situation. The room was small like a hotel room, but surgically clean. There was a very thin monitor in front of the bed I slept on, which was still made up. I tried to sit up, intending to lock the door, but I became immediately aware of a pounding in my head so intense I threw up. For reasons I don't know, I thought it important to look at the contents of the mess I just made. It looked white and had no solids. From the pounding in my head and nausea, I surmised I had been poisoned or previously suffering from sickness. Because I was fully dressed, I concluded the former was the case. Still wanting to lock the door, I stumbled over to it and found there to be no internal locking devise. I found a chair and was about to prop it up when I observed that the door swung the wrong way. Whoever put me in this room didn't want me to lock it. Another fact, check. I went over to the mirror located to the left of the room in front of the bathroom door. My face seemed only slightly familiar. I was average in looks, no sign of bruises, but I did notice a very peculiar scar running from my left eyebrow to my hairline. I decided to go in the bathroom and do a full search of injury, as well as just an overall look at my body. Before I did this, I had a sudden inclination to find a weapon of some kind. All I could find was a pen, so I took it with me to the bathroom. The bathroom was small and super clean. It had disposable and single use soaps and shampoos, which indicated there might be someone who replaced it daily.


It's very strange when you don't know who you are. It's like your mind has been transplanted in another person's body and you're every movement is a violation of personal ethics. My body was fit and tone with a few scars here and there. I'm sure one of the scars is from being shot by some kind of weapon. Other than that, I seemed fine. My head was clearing as I began to analyze my environment. From what I could tell, there was no way to see out of the room except by walking out the only exit, which my enigmatic training told me was dangerous. I decided to explore the room a bit more. Putting my clothes back on, I walked over to the bed. It was a mattress set on a rectangular cube, so there was no way to hide something underneath it. The only object which seemed out of place was the monitor which seemed a bit more high-tech than other TV monitors I'd seen. It was as thin as a pane of glass, but only slightly transparent. It stood on a small stand which made it appear to float in empty space at first glance. I felt around it searching for a means to control it, and when I touched the center it happened.


"Good morning Subject 81. How are we feeling today?"
The woman speaking was dressed in a white overcoat which seemed to partially conceal business attire underneath.


"I'd feel much better if I could ask you a few simple questions," I said. Always take what your lead is saying and turn the subject of any question to match the subject you actually want to talk about. Why I know this, I have no idea, but it seemed practical advice.


"Of course 81, you're always such a philosopher when you wake up." She smiled ironically at this, which disturbed me. Have I been waking up here every day??


"Thank you. I would like to know who you are and where I am. I would also like to know how long I've been here, and why I have a headache accompanied by nausea." I didn't really expect her to answer all of these questions, but I did want her to know that I was aware of the bullshit.


She started to laugh. "You ask the same questions every morning 81. My name is Dr. Sally Benson. You are a resident here at Third Utopia, a mental hospital for those who have the money to pay for it. Last night you received a high dose of drugs because we had to subdue you after you killed three staff members and another patient while attempting to… um… Well I assume you were trying to escape. Not very smart. There is no escape from Third Utopia, and besides, we can't have you running around society when you don't even know who you are."


So she admits there is a "society" other than third utopia… Interesting. Dr. Benson was quite beautiful, and she seemed very young for a doctor. I was skeptical, but at the same time I had no idea who I was or where, so… maybe I was in a mental institution.


"Thank you Dr. Benson. But I don't remember any of that. I'm also not sure how I got here, and who I was before I got here. Can you perhaps enlighten me?"


"That information is classified even to me Subject 81. Aside from last night's incident, you've always seemed to be a very peaceful resident. You don't remember being here yesterday or the day before?"


"No. I don't remember any of it."


"Well lucky for you. I guess today you get a fresh start Subject 81. A second chance! How about some breakfast this morning, huh? Would you like me to have some sent to your room?" She seemed very scripted and rehearsed, which made me suspicious. Is it an everyday occurrence that subjects here lose their memories? Or is it just an everyday occurrence that I lose my memory? What the hell is this chick's fucking deal? She must have been involved in whatever incident put me in my current state of amnesia. I need to get outside this room and gather more intelligence before I make anymore decisions.


"How come I'm not being punished for last night?" I said, hoping this would reveal some useful information.


"How can we punish you if you don't remember anything? You're not the same person you were last night are you? At least that's what you've told me, right? You're the philosopher, you tell me. Besides, I don't make those decisions. Now let's get you that breakfast 81. I'm sending down some biscuits and gravy, your favorite!" Dr. Sally Benson smiled and the monitor went dark.


This place is totally fucked. Fact two, check. Or was it fact three? Screw it. I'll figure this out if it kills me. I like solving puzzles. I have a vague feeling that I have a knack for it.