Truth City

By Nick Sapien

Truth City epitomizes man's greatest achievement; it is a special place on Earth, the birthplace of the Truth Machine. The Truth Machine in turn allows human beings the chance to shed their former iniquity and barbaric tendency and make Earth into a Utopia, where human beings live in freedom, and happiness. But for Peter Savante all is not well; he makes a living as a geneticist, enhancing genes of parents who desire genetically enhanced children. He uncovered a foul lie underneath the surface of societal civility and prosperity, which launched him on a quest to uncover the origin of the Truth Machine. As he searches for the truth, he would evade the all powerful Consortium, find love, and join the Revolution in a final battle for the soul of mankind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463440893

Nick Sapien

Nick Sapien has been writing speculative science fiction for more than twenty years. As a graduate of UCLA and USC with a bachelor degree in molecular biology and a doctorate of medicine respectively, he has a unique perspective on the role of science and genetic engineering in shaping the future of mankind. Given man's predictable psychology and unsavory propensity, Nick Sapien set out to speculate on the ultimate dystopian society, to question the nature of freedom and rebellion. To create this society, he drew on personal, contrasting experiences of living a harsh life under a suppressive communist society versus a comfortable freedom in Southern California, and the resultant dystopian society is truly terrifying, as it is rooted not only in the societal institutions but in the very genetic sequences of man himself.

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Contents

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18

1

In Truth City, no one can ever escape the Truth Machine.

The thought had been running through his mind over and over for the last two hours, and when he was not thinking about the Truth Machine, he thought about the Red Book. Just past midnight, the chilly dew of the midnight sky descended over the rooftop, where he sat. Peter Savante has been sitting over the concrete ledge at the edge of the building, his legs dangling precariously, and his heels tapping the side of the building as he looked straight down toward the street, a hundred floors below. Sweat oozed from his palms, and his breath seemed choked in the windpipe. If he were to nudge forward a few inches, he would plunge down to the street below, to his death.

Standard housing construction dominated this part of the city. To see the true architectural marvels of the city, the sky-scrapers that defied gravity, that embodied grace and beauty and human ingenuity, one had to go fifty miles west to the center of Truth City, to the seat of power and wealth, where the dreaded City Hall resided. In a few hours when the sun came up, he would have to go there, and he would have to go to answer for his crime.

Do you hate biospliceds? Peter said now and then, purposely grunting, making his voice artificial, imitating a machine. Then he mumbled to himself, No. No. No.

No way to escape, no way that he knew of anyway. The Truth Machine was the law. He has sieved through his knowledge and found only dead ends, and the harder he tried, the more florid his mind became, so florid and convoluted that for a moment the idea of nudging over the edge and plunging to his death seemed strangely reasonable. But he dismissed the thought. His nature would not allow giving up.

What about running away? Disappearing into the wilderness. Behind him, the building and beyond the city wall, vast wilderness stretched in empty darkness. Instinctively he turned to look at it, to check and verify its existence, and therefore to know that an alternative solution existed. But light illuminated only a few yards past the city wall, and at best he could only discern the shapes of trees, bushes, and scrubs, and beyond that only two colors draped over everything—the translucent darkness of the sky that was punctuated by the distant lights, and the impenetrable opacity of the vegetation. Only wild animals lived out there. The ambiguous scents of the wilderness floated toward him—a sweet fragrance of flowers that had just blossomed, the pungent chemicals of wild plants, and even putrid odor of decomposing animals’ corpses. Somewhere out there, the Outcast Zone waited.

No hurry to join the wilderness, he thought. First of all he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to survive by himself, and secondly he would end up there anyway if he were to fail the Truth Machine and the subsequent rehabilitation.

He turned back to face the city. The collective power of millions of individual light bulbs, florescent tubes, various screens, headlights, neon lights, street lights, and flood lights that scanned the sky and served to guide sky traffics, imparted to the atmosphere the glow of a small sun. High above the sky, lights from long procession of vehicles blinked like distant stars and crisscrossed the darkness into a twinkling patchwork. Accompanying the glow of the city, an unceasing rumble of hovercopters, trains, automobiles, and unseen machines percolated throughout the space and even the small crevices where the light couldn’t reach.

When all possibilities to escape the Truth Machine had been exhausted, catchy phrases from the Red Book began to intrude into his thoughts: Hereditary Oligarchical Neo-Capitalism, Illusion of Freedom, Controlled Evolution. The Red Book had more than instigated in him a sense of rebellion—after all that was its stated purpose—it had helped him accept his place in the world, and confirmed his suspicion that something was not quite right with the world—the perfect world that the Truth Machine had created. When he first read it, his mind couldn’t quite comprehend the words, which spoke of indescribable human folly and machination, the stuff of evil.

Do you hate biospliceds? That’ll be the question, all right. That’ll be the question it will ask me, he muttered absent-mindedly, then after a moment of silence he relented, Yes.

At last, Peter, like all citizens of the world, resigned his fate the Truth Machine just as he had done all his life, as far back as he could remember. At five years old, he had been thrown into the dim chamber of Truth Machine, and the door squeezed shut, and the artificial voice from rickety loud speaker crackled the question: ‘Did you steal the cookies?’ And afterward the thrashing from his mother—no, it was not right, she was not his mother, only the woman who took care of him—she had intended to thrash the stubbornness out of him. The dank chamber of the old Truth Machine welcomed him when he scored a perfect score in his high school entrance exam and had to prove that he did not cheat. Even when he did not have to go inside its chamber, its presence hovered above him; he remembered the time in ninth grade when Lisa Fontenat said she would kiss him only if he could prove that he loved her. Of course he did not, and the dream of touching and kissing her remained only a dream so long as the Truth Machine remained an easy way to prove anything—even love. Then during college, the Truth Machine had been there for all occasions, all exams. As he graduated and got a job, it followed him unceasingly, and the artificial voice from the loud speaker inside the Truth Machine would mark out the stages of his life: Did you cheat? Did you fabricate the data? Through the thirty seven years of his life, the Truth Machine has been there to goad him on a straight path, to guide him through his career, to enable him to attain great achievements—a genetic engineer with a triple nine rating. And now the Truth Machine inevitably would take away everything.

The sunlight edged over the artificial glow of Truth City, and with increasing brightness advancing over the concrete amalgamation of human inventions, Peter turned around, jumped off the ledge onto the roof and waved down a hovertaxi passing by overhead. The vehicle kicked off from the rooftop and zipped straight westward to City Hall. Flames shot out from its underbelly, and the vehicle, stabilized by at least a dozen gyroscopes, flew skyward. Buildings passed below him as one continuous, blurry visage of multi-color concrete, having innumerable shapes and sizes, some florid and others contorted; these buildings were ultra-modern functional architectural arts and testaments to the achievement of the Truth Machine.

As the hovertaxi neared City Hall, it swirled in midair, being sucked in by the enormous complex. The four sectors of the City Hall Complex reached at least two hundred feet into the air and resembled four conduits to channel all the energy and humanity of Truth City into its center. The center of City Hall itself spiked upward several hundred floors, and its foundation rooted into the earth, at unimaginable depth.

*     *     *

At the entrance to North Sector of City Hall, a gigantic gothic metallic arch welcomed the citizens into its hallow hall. Two sculptures, perhaps resembling some humanoid forms or unimaginably advanced machines reaching slightly higher than the entrance, stood guard. The enormity of these humanoid sculptures, without recognizable faces or any human appendages, seemed to bully all those who happened to enter. As Peter proceeded across the entrance, he bowed his head, and felt himself cowering before a great and unknown power.

Though early in the morning, a small mob of people moved through the entrance; some of them wore gray and blue uniforms, and they appeared to be the administrators who ran the city, while many more were civilians. Some appeared happy and somewhat anxious, and Peter could only guess that they came for joyous reasons, perhaps to apply for a genetic license to have an enhanced child. Yet others looked unmistakably despondent; they walked with head down-casted, shoulders drooping, and general demeanor crestfallen, just as he was.

Beyond the entrance of City Hall, perhaps a hundred information consoles lined one side of the hallway; on the other side were numbered doors. Immediately the civilians went up to the information consoles to begin their business, while the bureaucrats disappeared through various doors, portals, stairs, and elevators.

The information console consisted of a camera portal and a holographic projector. Peter went up to one, and as soon as he stepped in front of the camera portal, the holographic projector shot out an image of a man. The typical face, brown eyes, brown hair of moderate length, and neck covered by a gray uniform inside the holographic bubble floated across from him.

I am administrator number A82384. Please state your business, the man said.

I’m here to be processed.

What is your name?

Peter Savante.

What is your identification number?

3816547290.

Please proceed to door 13, the image said.

Door 13 was nearby, behind him. He went to it; the door was tall and narrow, only wide enough to let one person through at a time. Momentarily freezing in front of the door, he became aware of the strong pulses, the clammy palms, and the parched throat. He swallowed several time, and gathering his strength he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Once through the door, a white light lit up a narrow walkway, a white wall on each side, and everything appeared completely sterile. The faint smell of antiseptic and formaldehyde pervaded from the distal wall where small window opened to another small room.

Peter approached the window. Beyond the window, more white walls and a distal door enclosed a small space. There was no one, only complete silence.

He stood at the window, his eyes darted around searching for someone, and his mouth opened but no sound came out. Several minutes passed, and he shifted his weight from one foot to another. He stared at the door, half expecting it to open at any moment. Out of nowhere, his left hand tightened into a fist and smacked against his right palm, over and over, as to strike blows against an invisible injustice, one which he fully felt and was certain of, but could not quite articulate or enumerate. Why is it unfair that I am standing here, awaiting conviction from a nameless bureaucrat,he thought. And what is the nature of his crime? He had merely called his superior a degenerate biospliced, and had screamed in his face, but these were merely words. But to the state, he had broken the laws.

The door swung open. A sleepy-faced bureaucrat appeared. The young man had brown hair, brown eyes, and the same gray uniform went to his neck, but Peter knew he was not the same one in the hologram earlier. He came to face Peter, across the small window, holding two items in his hands; one hand held a small computer console, the other a glass vial with a cotton stick inside.

Name? the bureaucrat said.

Peter Savante.

Hate Crime?

Peter said nothing.

You were arrested for Hate Crime, he read from his console. Open your mouth.

What?

Open your mouth.

Why? Peter said. The cotton stick inside the glass vial was for collecting his cheek cells, and the bureaucrat was already holding it up, aiming at Peter’s mouth.

Your DNA will be cross-checked with the database. You’ll be labeled.

What if I’m not guilty.

Doesn’t matter. The laws allow DNA collection for anyone arrested, he said; sleepiness still hung on his face.

I see, Peter said and opened his mouth.

Wider.

Peter felt the cotton tip scratching the inside of his left cheek, scrubbing painfully, and he could imagine the synthetic cotton fiber stripping and catching his cells. Then a sensation of a liquid pooled around his teeth. He could taste it; he tasted blood. The sleepy face of the bureaucrat seemed to brighten with masochistic pleasure.

When he finished collecting the specimen, the bureaucrat said, How do you plead?

Don’t I need to submit to the Truth Machine?

Not if you plead guilty.

Well, I insist on my right. I have the right to submit to the Truth Machine. I have the right to be proven innocent.

If you wish. But you should know, if you fail, then you just committed another crime against the state.

Another offense?

Yes. A false claim of innocence.

I see.

So unless you’re truly innocent, the bureaucrat sounded oddly magnanimous. You should just plead guilty.

You think so? Peter said. His teeth pressed together, grinding and trying to suppress an unwanted outburst, and he stared hard at the bureaucrat, studying his skin like a scanner, looking for the slightest signs of imperfection, of genetic alteration, of being a biospliced. You think so?

It’s up to you. Truth knows, I’m just trying to help, he said, all the while shaking his head with a condescending air. One more offense, and more penalty.

What sort of penalty?

Bigger fine. Longer rehabilitation. Of course, if your DNA has problems, defective codings I mean, then it’s pointless. You’ll just go straight to electro-brain surgery.

The inferior biospliced was talking to him, guiding him through, but he knew better. It was all a trick, a con game, in which he was being led down the path of least resistance. Sure, there were biospliceds who were smarter than he, but even with superior intelligence they would still be inferior. And this bureaucrat, standing in front of him, was without a doubt inferior to him in every way possible, and yet he grinned with triumph. Peter mustered all his will power and self control to keep himself from shaking.

So. What’s it going to be? he said and smiled. Plead guilty or go into the Truth Machine. Your choice.

I plead guilty, Peter whimpered.

You did good, he said, and smiled again. You wouldn’t want the extra penalty. He held the computer console up to eye level and aimed the camera portal at Peter. Please state your name and plead guilty again. I need it for the record.

Peter stared into the camera portal and said, My name is Peter Savante. I plead guilty.

Peter thought he had finished, but the bureaucrat still held the computer console and aimed the camera portal at him.

What’s next? Peter said.

You have to say the crime. Now do it over again.

My name is Peter Savante. I plead guilty to the charge of Hate Crime.

Very good. You will report to the South Sector in exactly fourteen days for sentencing. Do you have any other questions? the voice of the bureaucrat became abruptly stern.

No.

You may go.

2

Finally the gyration of the machine ceased; the loud ding in his ear eased. Peter opened his eyes. The small metallic prongs of the machine, which had descended from the high ceiling above, still surrounded his head, probing and searching. In all, several hundred of these snakelike metallic electrodes, with refined, shiny scales, surrounded his head; each was no more than few millimeters wide.

Ah, you’re awake. The doctor’s voice boomed from the loud speakers overhead.

How long? he said. A dull ache crawled up on the back of his neck. How long was I out for?

No more than half an hour, the doctor said.

The metallic prongs suddenly slithered back into the machine, which then ascended past the light flooding down on him and into the darkness of ceiling high above. Black wires and hoses crisscrossed the room thickly, encasing the contraption which restrained him. The smell of antiseptics suffused the room; he had sniffed it before passing out.

No more than half an hour, he thought. The statement was gibberish, for how could she miss the time he lay under the machine. Shouldn’t she know the exact time that the machine had been operating on his brain, that the electromagnetic waves had been pulsing his neural circuitry reorganizing his thought and proclivity. His sharp eyes squinted and focused through the glaring light. He saw her faint outline in the control room and behind her the dark figure of a guard; he despised her now more than ever, though the reason for such intense hatred could not be due to her vagueness about the time.

From the very beginning of the rehabilitation of his crime, he has been scrutinizing her for signs of a bio-spliced, but he could not make out much. Her washout blond hair was always tied into a bundle; her narrow, monotonous eyes moved in jerking movements similar to that of a lizard, and were too narrow for him to see their true colors; and the paleness of her cachectic, wrinkled face seemed to flow blandly into the whiteness of her lab coat.

How do you feel? the doctor said.

He yanked on the restraints, but found them still tight and unmovable.

I feel… as good as can be, he said.

That’s good. Tell me about your crime, she said.

You know all about it, he said. He felt the pressure building in his throat, ready to burst out invectives at her, but he swallowed instead.

Mr. Peter Savante, tell me about it, she enunciated the words.

Conviction of hate crime.

For Truth’s sake, why do you hate others so much? Her voice exuded from the loud speakers. Why do you hate them?.

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