“The insistence on absolute good requires absolute tyranny.”
—Cyril Teeter, Utopia: Implementation and Maintenance
Upon entering the room, the quisitor smiled, almost sympathetically, thought 439, and took a chair across from him at the small table in the interview room. A thick file carried by the quisitor plopped down on the table before they sat down. For a second, 439 imagined the quisitor was going to giggle at the sound of this plopping.
The file seemed large, but 439 had not seen the files they must maintain on each of them, so what context did he have regarding the size of such things? Was a large file inherently worse than a thinner file? A weird memory popped into his head: He recalled from chemistry classes that a deadly poison in small amounts is worse than larger doses of something much more benign. Maybe the apparent thickness of his file—it must certainly be his—is due to inert matters, humdrumness of no concern or consequence to the general good order of others.
“Do you know why you’re here, 439?”
The quisitor smiled again, and this almost made 439 visibly gulp—shit, that would fuck me! It was the smile of a well-fed crocodile who has no objections to further eating, far more than necessary for its daily nutritional needs. “They wouldn’t tell me.”
The smile vanished, replaced with the seeming neutrality of an expressionless face, as if they wanted the interviewee to believe this was an unbiased investigation, one whose conclusion was not preordained. “That’s standard protocol. But, do you know why you’re here?” This time the inquiry stretched itself out, ever-so-slightly longer than the first time, as if a few extra feet of fishing line were played out in a pond where the plentifulness of the fishing is pathetically—perhaps criminally—easy.
He didn’t answer right away. Certain the pause made itself a piece of damning evidence for the quisitor sitting across the table. The guilty always paused. Or didn’t. Either way, the proof of guilt was irrefutable.
Was it wise to say you knew if you did indeed know, and then out with it, all of it?
They always insisted the truth is the way to go, though no one in this situation believed it, of that he was certain—and yet, though he had no evidence of his own to prove it, he was sure many of those, maybe every damn one of them, who had sat in this very chair across from this very quisitor, or one just like them, told the truth, silently begging it would be their salvation, knowing full well it would not be. Was it safer to say you knew and then deliberately give them not the truth, but something that is plausibly so? Maybe they’d think you were stupid, go easy on you.
“I’ll ask again, 439, do you know why you’re here?” The quisitor did not seem irritated in the least by the delay, but it was not due to preternatural conviviality; no, this was the politeness of one absolutely without doubt that they had total control of the situation, this interrogation, its outcome.
“Is it…is it the proportions?” There it was. Out. The truth and not a lie.
The quisitor did not nod or shake their head. They merely looked ahead, straight at 439. “Do you think it might be the proportions?”
Oh, damn, the trap. Why didn’t I lie and go down a path that had a false chance at escape, even if I only convinced myself for a few minutes of this nonexistent possibility. He swallowed, demonstrably—fuck! The motion of his Adam’s apple surely screamed out: “Guilty! Guilty!”
The quisitor opened the file on the table in front of them, scanned the first page. Deeper pages were checked. The file closed. “Your recent history was brought to our attention: searches, log-ins, movements, expenditures…associations.”
He’d done well in his grammar classes and could almost see the ellipses like the entry-wounds from machine gun bullets stitching across his chest in one of the banned old-time reelies. He’d watched several of those at a reely den prior to his recent abandonment of such wanton recklessness.
Associations. Had the word been slightly drawn out or is it only my panicked imagination?
“Does March 13th of this year mean anything to you?”
Fuck, I see where this is heading. “I…I think I went to the Spring Fair.”
“Is that where you were, or do you only think you went there?
“No. I mean, yes. Yes, I was there.”
“By yourself?”
He answered quickly, praying this implied cooperation. “With 1117.” He pronounced it, eleven-seventeen, instantly regretting the insouciance of it. One-one-one-seven was the official name of his…association…that is if one were to abbreviate it somewhat, and such a truncation bespoke of dangerous familiarity, perhaps subversiveness. A quisitor could take such liberties, but not a…suspect.
“Very good. We see you were there for a little more than three hours. You bought two hot dogs, two frozen custards. I don’t see any beverages. Can you explain that?”
He could. Thank, God. “The fair had drinking fountains. We both used those. A few times each. It was hot.”
“Did you at any point push, on behalf of 1117, the operating button while 1117 drank water?”
Damnit! “Yes.”
The quisitor was well-practiced in their craft, but carelessly allowed a hint of a smirk. “Were the hot dogs and custards for both of you, or did you or 1117 eat them all yourself?”
Surely they watched the vids. “We had one each, of both things.”
“And you paid for all of it, is that right?”
They damn well know the answer. “Yes.”
“Did 1117 reimburse you?”
“No.” He couldn’t possibly lie about that. The amount, down to the exact penny, would be detected in both their accounts.
“A week later you were at the Southside Entertainment Center, is that correct, 439?”
“Yes.”
“By yourself?”
“No.” He thought about naming who he was with, sure that would be the next question. Would preemption help, make me seem eager to assist, a good citizen replete with credits?
“You paid for the rental of one pair of bowling shoes?”
“Yes.”
“Only one pair?”
“Yes.”
“Bought one slice of pizza and one soda?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you weren’t alone that evening.”
I knew it. “I was with 226 and 608.”
“Just so we’re clear, for the record: Do you mean 411608 or 523608?”
“523608.” Each number clearly enunciated individually.
“Pardon me, if you’ll be so kind. Another question about 1117.”
Oh, God.
“You had sexual relations with 1117, on three occasions? By 1117, I mean, specifically, 201117”
Shit! If I say yes or no, that presumes I knew what sexual relations are. He thought hard. The sweat on my face must be visible to this bastard. Were there exemptions as to when the knowledge of such relations were allowed? He couldn’t remember…the delay at answering the question already too long…then he remembered something that might help: “Four.” He almost said it twice, but caught himself in time. The one time was spoken in a neutral tone. A second time might’ve come across as dangerous open insurrection, which would’ve been madness in this room in front of the quisitor. Nevertheless, getting to correct the quisitor gave him a momentary feeling of satisfaction at his helpfulness, but the look on the quisitor’s face told him they already knew it was four.
“Do you refer to them as 1117 or 117, when you’re alone?
“117.”
“Interesting. Have you thought about seeing them again, perhaps having additional sexual relations?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever called them the lone digit, 7?”
Were the eavesdroppers good enough to hear a whisper into an ear, underneath thick covers? He took the gamble: “No.”
“Why not?”
“That would seem…is cheeky, the right word?” Christ, the word “ungentlemanly” almost came out instead of cheeky. He wanted so badly to reach up and wipe the sweat from his face. Could they read thoughts yet? He’d heard whispered rumors at the reely den…
The quisitor’s face remained unchanged, which could mean anything.
“On March 27th, in the early afternoon, do you remember where you were?”
Fuck! “Yes, I stopped by the park.”
“The one a block from 1117’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
“You both met there and returned to 1117’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
“But didn’t have sexual relations on that occasion?”
“No.”
“But you did kiss, hug, perhaps hold hands?”
“Yes.”
“Have you had intercourse with the aforementioned 226 or 608?”
“No.”
“Why not? I mean, you seemed particularly eager to do so with 1117?”
There was no way he was going to say the real reason. He knew the consequences of such an admission. And yet…here he was, across the table from a quisitor, surely for that very reason. The quisitor didn’t seem concerned about the reluctance in his answering the question. Of course not! He knows the reason!
“In addition to 1117, there was a time when you had intercourse with…” The quisitor looked into the file again, more for performance than a need to recall a specific fact. “…256765. Yes, 765, as I assume you called them when you were alone.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you had intercourse, or yes, you called them 765 when alone.”
“Both. Yes, to both.”
“Do you have knowledge of the gender identity of 117 and 765? By gender identity I mean in the unlawful archaic sense—male or female. Oh, I hope you don’t mind my use of your endearing terms in the interest of keeping it simple. These formal names can be tiresome, don’t you think?”
Is this bastard kidding me? Do they think I’ll actually openly agree with that statement? “I’m fine with formal names, but 117 and 765 are okay by me to use here, if it helps.”
“That’s wonderful. Thank you. Now about their genders. Do you know for a fact how they are sorted, or did you guess, or was it irrelevant to you?”
“I’ve had the anti-history classes, so I knew when I saw them…you know, naked…what they were.”
“Did you at any time ask them?
A gentleman doesn’t incriminate a…a lady. “I didn’t ask. I swear.”
“But did you know or suspect beforehand…before you saw them naked, before you put in motion actions that led to sexual relations?” There was a newly revealed hard edge to the word “you” said three times in one sentence. This is the real quisitor coming out.
So, this is how it ends. Like they said in a reely, “all this dancing and shucking and jiving” to get to this, the key question. Did I know they were women prior to my wanting to fuck them? How could I not know? Oh, the genflagers worked wonders, many swore they couldn’t tell the difference, but I could—117 and 765 were female all right, I knew that from the start. My God, they were beautiful naked. Much more so than I’d imagined.
“Yes, I knew.”
“From the beginning?”
“Yes. From the beginning?”
“How?”
“I just did. I can’t say how. I don’t have x-ray vision. I just knew.”
“I know you don’t have access to anyone’s files. Did you know that 226 and 608 were not female-only—or to use another archaic term, that they were men.”
“Yes.”
“Before we end, please state your preferred identity for the record. If it’s fluid, please indicate any or all official versions you identify with.”
For the record. This sounded benign, though he knew otherwise. They had this information. It was surrendered up at the start of every year, and it was only a month into the current one. This for the record was an epitaph etched forever into a marble headstone.
“Male.”
The quisitor’s eyes widened slightly. This was something new. Reckless defiance. The very thing believed long extinguished. Only trivial levels of vestigial bigotry remained for the quisitors to deal with.
“Male? In the archaic sense?”
“Male. There is no, as you put it, archaic sense.”
“Just male?”
“Yes.” The quisitor opened the file on the table in front of them, shuffled a few papers, closed it.
“Any unofficial versions? Perhaps you’d like a GDL ruling on these.”
Gender Definition Law. Was this a last chance to save him? No, why consider that fool’s hope. “No. I’m a man.”
“A somewhere on the spectrum male, perhaps? Again, another archaic concept.”
The sweat had dried, and he no longer felt afraid. He sat up straight and stared into the eyes of the quisitor: “No spectrum. I’m full-on male and always shall be.”
The quisitor clicked their tongue against their teeth. It sounded like the first few notes of a song of some sort. One distantly familiar.
“You know what this means?”
“Yes.”
“This next question isn’t part of the record, but I’d like to ask you if you don’t mind.”
He could tell this was true. The person in front of him sincerely wanted to know.
“Okay.”
“Do you have any regrets about the actions that resulted in your being here today?”
The answer came surprisingly easy and he meant every word of it. It surprised the person across from him not at all.
“Fuck, no. None at all.”
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