The Department of Corrections, Book One

“Welcome to Psych Ward A!” the queer voice of the State’s Head Social Engineer, Dr. Sinclair Burgess, thundered from within the electric darkness—shocking E30541 awake. Malyj’s pale, naked body had jolted awake as if electrocuted by the liquid darkness he floated in, looking like a staticky, black-and-white ultrasound scan of a giant squirming fetus.

He was parked inside of a cold concrete block cell, strapped down onto the same stainless-steel chimera, only repositioned vertically instead of horizontally. His Karpian-goggled eyes frantically searching the total darkness, both still forced wide open by awful rusted metal clamps. His rusty desiccated mouth unclamped, now freed to scream a broken and hoarse:

“H . . . e . . . l . . . p!”

. . . An eerie silence answered the transfixed impound. . . .

Panicking. What the f . . . ?! Where the hell am I? How long have I been hanging here? His spine suddenly arched like a painful electric arc traveled it: a muscle cramp.

Then, a peaceful mechanical humming, as if the womb-like interrogation cell was trying to lull Malyj into a false sense of security.

Writhing within the limits of his painful restraints. Shit! What the fuck have they done to me? What are they planning to do to me now?!

Soon, the demented genius Dr. Burgess, would begin the process of grading E30541s brain’s intellectual capacity: to sell a recycled brain on the surface world’s black market, it must first be graded. Grade A the highest, Grade D the lowest. Grade F brains are incinerated for any trace of phosphorus. The higher the Psych Grade, the greater the financial return for the Karpian State.

“What isth your name?” an effeminate, lisping voice spat from within the humming darkness.

“Sasha Malyj . . . ?” said uncertain, his protruding bloodshot eyes whirling within death-black sockets, occasionally ricocheting against a jagged outline of bone-white cranium.

“Wrong! Wrong!” the effeminate voice repeated. A bright, angry light exploded! on—destroying the darkness, then violently shone into E30541s pried-open hazel eyes.

“Who’s there?!” said Malyj, gawking through his Karpian goggles into the hidden interrogator’s blinding light.

. . . Asking again. Slowly. Softly. Effeminately. “What isth your name?” The lisping Doctor’s wet-mouthed smacking sounds filled the gaps in-between their erratic dialogue.

“E . . . 3 . . . 0 . . . 541?” struggling to speak with rusty xerostomia; struggling to remember his alphanumeric impound number.

“Correct! Correct!” the effeminate voice repeated like an excited schoolgirl. The sound of hands clapping rapidly. . . . The clapping stopped.

The bright, angry light clicked! off—darkness swallowed the light.

Thank God! Malyj thought during a short, blinding pause: the rippling, achromatic-flamed ghost of a light bulb within a silvery halo was still burning upon his transparent corneas; still burning upon his horrified mind. His interrogator once again hidden by total darkness.

“VIL-EN!” the effeminate voice spat from within the humming darkness.

“Yes, Dr. Burgess,” her mechanical voice soothed from the rusted speakers in the IntCell’s (interrogation cell’s) waterlogged concrete ceiling.

“Let’s have some fun before this Psych Grade. . . . Please activate remote RBMS (reverse brain mapping scan) for Equality 30541: StimCor (stimulation for correction).

“StimCor activated for Impound E30541,” said the artificial intelligence.

“Initiate CORRECTION! Level one conditioning.”

“Yes, sir.” VIL-EN’s emotional tone that of an unsympathetic machine.

Malyj felt a strange electromagnetic sensation within his skull, like his brain was vibrating, like his frontal lobes were searing on a bug zapper. He thought he could hear and smell and taste his terrified brains cooking.

Then, a suddenly bitchy Dr. Burgess clenched his bony, moisturized, womanish hands into iron fists and charged through the humming darkness toward . . .