The Paradise Alternative

 

           "I was born poor!" Trish shouted as the monitors dragged her out of the classroom. "Why should I be punished for that?"
           She kept on shouting long after she was out of earshot of the horrified silence of the classroom. Someone had to hear her. Someone had to realize that there had to be changes.
           They arrived at the principal's office. The monitors held her arms firmly, but there was no need. She was too exhausted to fight. Hopelessness engulfed her. There would be another session with the electroprod, and then she would apologize. She always did.
           Principal Elstone was not happy to see her. He clutched his electroprod tightly as if he were afraid that she would rush him, and mopped his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. Trish had always suspected that he secretly agreed with her -- that the Universal Access Schools were no more than propaganda instruments to reconcile the poor to their poverty.
           "And what was the topic under discussion today?" he asked, with an air of weariness.
           "We need computers in the classrooms. There are no jobs for the computer illiterate."
           He sighed. "What is the use of preparing people for jobs that will never be available?" The same party line as Trish’s teacher had spouted.
           "If we were prepared, we could compete for the jobs on an equal basis."
           "That would cause social chaos. Don't you see that?"
           "You call it social chaos. I call it justice."
           He shook his head despairingly. "Where do you get those ideas?"
           "Not here, that's for sure." Daily, they were told that the Taxpayers were entitled to the jobs because they were Taxpayers. They could afford the tuition to send their children to private schools to learn job skills. The more prestigious the job, the higher the tuition. The Unskilled --"poor" was not considered a politically correct word -- were relegated to the Universal Access schools, where they were provided with freshly laundered uniforms, de-lousing, and nutritious but uninspiring breakfasts and lunches. If they remained after school for the Approved Activity Period and the Homework Period, they would be served a hot supper before going home. Compulsory schooling had been ruled unconstitutional, but almost every eligible juvenile attended. If the relative comfort of the facilities and the free meals were not enough to promote attendance, there was the fact that any person between the ages of five and eighteen found out-of-doors during school hours was promptly picked up by the police and taken to a Youth Counselling Centre.  Once there, they risked being placed in hellishly restrictive Family Foster Homes or relegated to a Rehabilitation Centre. 
            Principal Elstone drew himself up into his Severe Pose. "Young lady--education is a privilege, not a right--a privilege you have abused repeatedly."
           Her eyes were vacant. He always gave the same speech before he used his electroprod.
           "Since you have failed to give any sign of benefitting from this privilege, it will be withdrawn."
           Will be withdrawn? Is he trying to scare me again?
           Principal Elstone pressed a button on his desk. Miss Trent, one of the less inspiring teachers, entered carrying a plastic bin with her locker contents.
           "Take off your uniform," she ordered.
           Trish stared, unable to absorb the meaning of the new routine.
           "Take off your uniform and put on your clothes," Miss Trent repeated sharply, giving her a quick tap with her electroprod. "Hurry up--I'm missing my break."
            Trish turned Principal Elstone, panic engulfing her. What would she do? Now that her older brother Sean had been arrested, she had no one to look after her, no one to protect her. As a juvenile, she had no access to food or clothing vouchers or public housing unless someone listed her as a dependent. 
           "Please--" she said. "I'll do better."
           "You were warned," he said sternly. 
           "I'm only twelve," she pleaded, "and I have no one."
           Miss Trent prodded her again. "Things will operate much more smoothly around here without you. Now, hurry up!"
           After Trish had undergone the humiliation of exposing her tattered underwear to the relentless gaze of Principal Elston and Miss Trent, they sorted through the contents of the plastic bin. Her only personal possessions were a small fuzzy Smurf she had been given at one of the Christmas hand-outs, and a tooled leather wallet with no money in it. Everything else belonged to the school.
           It was only three blocks to the "apartment hotel" where she had lived with Sean. The room had been looted again, and the remaining furniture was gone. Without Sean to protect their territory, no one hesitated to take advantage of the fact that the lock had been forced open and never repaired. It didn't matter much now. The current month would end in eight days, and she would be on the street unless she managed to attach herself to someone who was eligible for a housing voucher.
           She sat on the floor, thinking. It would be a relief not having to repeat the slogans and give the correct answers. Now, at least, she could think her own thoughts. But she would have to think them without the benefit of food or housing or medical care. She had to find a protector, fast.
           Sean had been a good protector. Nobody dared to mess with her when he was around, and he was a gifted trader on the black market. This room used to contain mattresses, warm sleeping bags, a table and three chairs, and a small fridge that usually had food in it. The last few months, there was even a computer that Sean had scrounged from the recycling bin of a private school. He had taught her what he knew, which wasn't much, and left her ravenous for more. He was trying to trade for computer software when he was arrested. Since he was over eighteen and had a previous record, he was sent to the Centre for Incorrigible Offenders. She was speaking for him as well as for herself when she challenged the system where Taxpayers were Taxpayers and the Unskilled were the Unskilled, regardless of ability or motivation. Sean would have succeed at almost anything.
           Good thing mother isn't alive to see this. She'd be mortified. 
Trish's mother had spent the first seventeen years of her life in the suburbs before both her parents were downsized in the same year. Even though it no longer mattered, she continued to fuss about things like getting a good education and what the neighbours would think. She never ceased to lecture her children about the merits of getting ahead until the day she died of pneumonia during a power failure. Despite all evidence to the contrary, she believed that hard work, nice clothes, and appropriate social skills would lead somewhere warm and comfortable.
           Trish checked the hole in the wall where she had stashed the last of the peanut butter. Gone. She sat down again and hugged her Smurf closer.
           Two days later she was apprehended while removing Valuable Public Resources from a dumpster.
           In some ways, the New Hope Rehabilitation Centre for Girls was better than school. All the staff carried electroprods and discipline was swift and brutal, but expectations were clear. They were herded into the gymnasium for daily Motivational Lectures, but they were not required to participate in discussion or repeat the slogans. There were few organized activities, but there was an active underground network. The "clients" were not supposed to speak to each other, but the facility was overcrowded and understaffed and supervision was minimal at times. It was the first time that Trish's humour and ideas were welcomed by her peer group. She almost regretted having to leave.
           "You'll be back," the matron said as she checked her out. "I know your kind. Your brother is a jailbird, and you will be a jailbird. When all else fails, they will put your head in a vise and do brain surgery without an anaesthetic."
           That was not an empty threat, the more experienced girls at New Hope informed her. All newcomers to the Centre for Incorrigible Offenders were fitted with remotely-controlled deep brain implants that activated pain signals. There was no need for electroprods or elaborate containment structures. A simple touch of a button could inflict punishment ranging from a mild headache to intolerable, incapacitating suffering.
           Animal testing had been banned for years, but inmates of the Centre for Incorrigible Offenders were encouraged to volunteer to be experimental subjects. Whenever there was a shortage of volunteers, the staff would turn on the brain stimulators, subjecting the entire population to increasingly severe pain until enough inmates came forward to fill the roster. Incorrigibles were used to work in radioactive sites and perform any tasks that Taxpayers found excessively distasteful. Despite the steady influx of new inmates, the population of Incorrigible Offenders remained constant.
Now that Trish was thirteen and of the age of legal consent, she tried to ply the oldest profession. She had received some rudimentary instructions at New Hope, and the life of a sex worker was more lucrative than raiding dumpsters. The first potential customer she approached was an undercover policeman checking credentials. She assured him that she would obtain her licence and health certificate as soon as she had earned enough money to pay for them, but he was not impressed.
           The matron at New Hope nodded wisely when she checked Trish in. 
           Her friends urged her to accept the Invitation. "Try it! You're young enough. You have a chance. Just smile and say what they want you to say. If you're placed, you'll get to go to school and use a computer."
           The Invitation was a monthly event at the end of a particularly lengthy and oppressive Motivational Lecture.  Half a dozen girls always came forward, tearfully confessing the error of their ways. If they passed a preliminary interview, they would be taken to another part of the facility for intense motivational instruction. After six weeks, they would be taken to one of the attractive group homes at the edge of the grounds to be indoctrinated into Taxpayer lore. They cooked, cleaned, sewed and did crafts, and learned how to behave at social functions. This is where the pictures were taken when the reporters came.
           From time to time, they would be visited by couples who were compulsive do-gooders or missed having a fledgling in their nest. Since all women were permanently sterilized after their second live birth, there was a brisk market for additional children, and anyone who wanted to give up an infant or small child for adoption could command a high price "for expenses". The less fortunate aspiring parents had to content themselves with rehabilitated youth. After a trial period of six months, they had the option of adopting the reclaimed black sheep and becoming the subject of emotional first-person accounts in popular household magazines. This was the only path by which an Unskilled person could enter the ranks of the Taxpayers. Trish hoped that her acting skills were up to the challenge.
           She did well in the program until her prospective father taught her the joy of sex and his wife caught them at it. Trish was sent back into the general population of New Hope in disgrace and forced to sit on the stage during an intense motivational lecture on the subject of ingratitude.
           She was a tougher and wiser fifteen-year-old when the matron checked her out again. Her subsequent career in burglary was interrupted by a stint in the Correctional Facility for Young Women. There were no more motivational lectures, but the electroprods were set on stun and there were frequent interrogations of all prisoners, whether they were suspected of wrong-doing or not. She spent the time learning as many survival skills as she could. When she left at eighteen, she knew desperate measures would be needed to avoid the Centre for Incorrigible Offenders.
           That was when the salesman approached her.
           He had a business card, a briefcase, and an oily smile. "I have an unusual opportunity for you. It's called The Paradise Alternative."
           "A porn shop?" she asked. She tried to act indifferent, but she was listening very attentively.
           "Nothing like that," he assured her. "Much better. Much, much better. Come to my car and we'll talk."
           The car was a limo, waiting in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn outside the slum. She got in. 
           "So--what kind of scam is this?"
           "Not a scam--an opportunity," he assured her. “I am a recruiting agent for the Reform Community in an alternate time line.”
           He began to explain about the space-time continuum and relativity and alternate realities and molecular dispersement and mass-energy conversion. None of these topics had been covered in the Universal Access educational curriculum, or in the motivational lectures.
           "Cut to the chase," she said at last. "You are offering to send me to some place where the Unskilled live like the Taxpayers do here?"
           “Unskilled is such a pejorative word. We call them Privileged.  The rest of us are Civic Supporters, and pretend to be proud of it.”
           “And I would be one of the Privileged?” Trish asked suspiciously. It sounded too good to be true.
           "Yes. But we wouldn't be sending you, exactly. Just your consciousness."
           "If things are so great there, why do they need my consciousness?"
           "An unfortunate brain virus," the agent murmured. "So many people are dying that social balance is in jeopardy."
           "You want to put me in a dead person?" she squeaked.
           "That person's consciousness would be gone, yes. But the body and brain would still be alive and serviceable."
           "Sounds like Frankenstein." She and Sean had watched a pirated videotape of the movie once with a group of friends. While not strictly illegal, it was no longer for sale in legitimate outlets.
           "Our transfer process is far beyond anything that crude," he soothed her. "Your personality, your memories, your intelligence--all will remain intact. There will be a little disorientation as you adjust to a new body, that's all. And it means so much to the relatives."
           "Won't they notice that there's something wrong?"
           "They will be told that you have total amnesia, and that there will likely be some irreversible personality changes. They will adjust. They are so eager to get their loved one back. With a little effort, you can become that loved one." His shining eyes reached into hers.
           "What's your fee?" she asked.
           "There is absolutely no cost to you."
           "But somebody is paying you."
           He cleared his throat. "Certain philanthropists...." he said delicately. "You know."
           "I'm a jailbird," she said brutally. "I don't understand refined ways. But I know there's a pay-off somewhere."
           "A number of Supporters are getting tired of supporting the Privileged. They have pooled their resources to enable social evolution, confident that they will eventually receive a generous return on their investment in increased benefits and lowered taxes."
           "Whatever happened to good old-fashioned armed revolt?" she demanded. "Wouldn't that be cheaper and easier?”
           “We gave up that type of conflict centuries ago. The damage to social networks and resources is unacceptable. We no longer have the physical or emotional capability for brute violence.”
           It crossed her mind that perhaps this sales pitch was a come-on to lure her to some secluded place where she could be killed and disposed of conveniently. But when the agent expressed his disappointment in her attitude and hinted that he had another appointment very soon, she made up her mind. Dying as an Incorrigible or dying in this weird sci-fi scheme, it made no difference. And maybe, just maybe, there was some truth in it.
           "What happens to my body?" she asked.
           "It will be disassembled to provide energy for the transfer."
           "But I won't be in it -- and I won't be dead? Are you sure I won't die?"
           "The fatality rate so far is .03 per cent. Three per ten thousand. Better than the odds of surviving here."
           "All right -- where do I go to sign up?"
           "You simply come with me to our orientation centre, where certain preparations must be made. You should be in your new home within the week."
           Maybe they're going to use me for some gruesome experiment. But why would they bother with this window dressing when they can get all the Incorrigibles they want simply by submitting a request to the Department of Justice?
           "I'm ready," she said.
           She was nervous when they arrived at the orientation centre, but the ordinariness of the place soon calmed her. Pleasant personnel performed a number of painless tests with electronic machines, and she was asked to listen to some orientation tapes. The rest of the time, there was good food -- real food instead of the Nutrino pellets she had become used to -- clean sheets, and even television. She caught up on world news and had desultory conversations with several other candidates who were also being oriented. None of them knew much, although some of them seemed to have a better grasp of the scientific concept of alternate reality. "It's like Sliders," one of them said. They found recordings of some episodes in the video library and showed them to her.   
           "Will I be able to meet my alternate self?" she asked one of the technicians, who seemed to find her questions boring.
           "Theoretically. But it isn't encouraged. Might upset the balance." 
           She nodded in agreement so as not to arouse his suspicion, but she thought that, given the chance, she would take any risk to reassure herself that her bodily self in the alternate reality was all right.
           She slept restlessly the night before the transfer. In the morning, she was asked to swallow a multi-coloured collection of pills. She was floating in a pink cloud of euphoria when they strapped her into the machine and made all the necessary connections. Even the thought of being "disassembled" seemed vaguely pleasant. She drifted off and woke up on a hospital bed, surrounded by green-garbed doctors and nurses in surgical masks. She tried to speak, but managed only a groan. Her tongue and teeth seemed to be in the wrong place.
           One of the doctors examined her eyes with a pen light, while the others called out readings from a battery of monitor screens. Finally they gathered around the bed, looking pleased.
           "Excellent!" the chief doctor exclaimed. "I think we've just saved another one."
           A woman with a clipboard came forward to join him as the rest of the team dispersed. "What's your name, sweetheart?" she asked.
           "Trish -- "  She remembered that was not her name any more.  "Ellen. I'm Ellen Pandella."
           The woman made a check mark on her sheet of paper. "Very good.  Can you recall anything else about yourself?"
           Trish managed to recall some details from her orientation tapes. The doctor nodded benevolently. When the questioning was finished, he summoned two orderlies with a guerney.
           "You're going to your room now," he said. "Once you're rested a while, they'll take you to physio. You can let Mrs. Pandella visit," he instructed the orderlies, "but only for ten minutes."
           Mrs. Pandella was tearful. "You probably can't remember who I am," she gushed, "but I'm your mother and I love you very, very much. We'll make new memories together. I promise."
           "When can I go back to school?" Trish/Ellen asked. It was the only question she could think of.
           Mrs. Pandella laughed her silvery laugh. "Oh, dear -- only Civic Supporters go to school. We are the Privileged."
           "Where I come from, we're called the Unskilled, not the Privileged," she blurted.
           "My, my," her new mother clucked. "We are a little disoriented, aren't we? Never mind. The doctor said it will pass soon."
           Trish/Ellen fell blissfully asleep. A week later, when she met her Adjustment Counsellor in preparation for going home, she was already thinking of herself as Ellen. Her awareness of her previous life as Trish was receding rapidly. She found that vaguely disturbing, and tried to bring her former reality into focus.
           "Did my brother come here?" she asked. "His name was Sean Johnson."
           "You are better to leave all that behind you," her counsellor soothed. "Focus on adjusting to your current reality. You are Ellen Pandella, and you have two wonderful brothers -- your full brother James, and Altor from your father's previous marriage."
           "Altor -- sounds like something out of a comic book," Ellen/Trish mused. "But I forgot -- there are no comic books here."
           "Altor is a gifted sculptor. You'll like his work."
           Seemingly, the arts had been relegated to the Privileged, who rarely partook of the popular entertainment of the Civic Supporters. Ellen/Trish had already come to the conclusion that she would prefer to be a Civic Supporter.
            "It's so incredibly boring here," she complained to her Adjustment Counsellor at her follow-up session a week later. "Is there any way I can get some education? I thought being Privileged would give me a chance to learn things."
           "Your mother tells me that your painting has already improved tremendously, and you have definite promise as an actress."
           "But I want to learn math and science and computers! Will I ever get to use a computer?"
           The counsellor leaned back and shook her head. "You will be a minor until you are thirty, and subject to the Department of Social Adjustment. After that, you may attempt to join the Civic Supporters if you wish, but it would be considered a social disgrace and it is unlikely that the Supporters would ever accept you."
           "Then send me back!" she exploded. "Your version of Paradise sucks!"
           "Oh, Ellen, you can't mean that! Think of the terrible things you went through before you came here!"
           "But at least I was alive! People didn't tell me that my ideas are the result of temporary disorientation.  I got to try new things, even though they didn't work out a lot of the time. I'm just a pig in a pen now. All we do is eat and sleep and play meaningless games. We spend all morning deciding what to wear and all afternoon hanging around Cultural Centres so the Supporters can clean up after us. Pigs are intelligent, you know--but they need space and stimulation, or they never get a chance to develop. These Privileged people, as you call them, are all brain dead."
           "Give it a little longer," the counsellor advised. "You will adjust."
            At her next counselling session, Ellen/Trish was more vocal than ever. She had done a lot of observing and reasoning, and her questions had an edge on them. "There is no Brain Virus, is there?" she asked finally, after an hour of fruitless attempts to extract information from the infuriatingly bland woman on the other side of the desk.
           The counsellor tensed. "What makes you say such a thing? The Brain Virus is a terrible disease. Hundreds have succumbed to it--or they would have, without the transfer technology."
           "But only the Privileged--never the Supporters."
           The counsellor squirmed. "I think you should talk to the Co-ordinator."
           The Co-ordinator was bluff and hearty. "Congratulations," he said, holding out his hand. "I think you are ready for consideration for the next phase."
           "What next phase?"
           “We will persuade your parents to enrol you in an intensive group therapy program for six hours a week. That’s a cover for an educational program.”
           “School?” Ellen/Trish asked.
           “Yes. We will give you the tools to rebuild our society by redirecting your funds. The billions you will inherit can catalyze change.”
           Ellen/Trish sat down hard. She had no idea that her new parents were so wealthy. "There is no Brain Virus, is there?" she asked again.
            "Disease was wiped out decades ago," the Co-Ordinator explained, "but the Privileged still have annual medical examinations. It has allowed us to make certain...adjustments. When we tell selected individuals that they have a virus that requires treatment, they are very grateful to have us look after them."
           "So you're killing off the Privileged and replacing them with imports from another time line," she said slowly.
           "That's a crude way of putting it, but essentially correct," the Co-Ordinator said absent-mindedly. He was scanning her file. "My goodness, your test scores are high."
           “Why don’t you just stop looking after the Privileged?” she asked. “If you established your own currency and economy, their wealth would have no power over you.”
           “We did consider that option, but it would cause endless complications. The Privileged own practically everything.”
           “Only because you let them.”
           “We opted for an orderly transition. Our imports are intelligent, resilient, and creative. They have a strong sense of justice, just like you. With our help, society will change, and rewards will be distributed more equitably.”
           The old Trish burst out, full of moral indignation. "How can you murder the Privileged without giving them a chance to change?" she shouted. "They're human beings just like you. It's not their fault that they're so stupid. You haven't allowed them any kind of challenge.  They just trust you to look after them."
           "And we have looked after them splendidly," the Co-Ordinator reminded her. "They outnumber us now, and we are getting tired of carrying the load."
           "Why don’t you offer them opportunities for education? Surely they would see how wrong all this is.”
           "We tried. But they are too satisfied with their lives. They have all been living on inherited wealth for at least three generations. They have no desire to experience the untried the way you do."
           "You looked after them too well."
           "I suppose so. Now it's time for them to give something back.”
           “What happens if I don’t agree to co-operate?” Ellen/Trish asked.
           The Co-Ordinator frowned. “In some unfortunate cases, the Brain Virus re-occurs, with progressive dementia and paranoid delusions.”
           Ellen/Trish sat back in her chair, reviewed her past experiences, and considered her options. Once again, she was trapped in a life she did not want. But this was a comfortable life with no electroprods, and she would eventually have the opportunity to participate in building a better world. It was not exactly Paradise, and it was ruled by a conspiracy of serpents, but it was her reality now. 
           She stood up. “Count me in.”
           The Co-Ordinator beamed and held out his hand. She smiled back as convincingly as she could, and shook it.