Force Fed Future

“See, it’s perfectly simple once you get used to it”, declared Cranfield somewhat arrogantly, as he inserted the yellow plastic tube into the mewling infants mouth. The recipient, barely hours old, immediately fell silent as it sucked hungrily on the pink teat attached to the end of the pipe which, in turn, was connected, via a series of tributary lines, to The Primary Ingestion Dispensing Unit, the beating heart of the entire process; a piece of kit developed by the tech boys over at Albright Enterprises and delivered literally days ago in a shroud of departmental secrecy. It was fair to say, thought Bendix, three weeks into the job and still green around the ears, that things had got very hush hush around these parts of late.

It was a prototype. The pioneer. The initial wave of what was anticipated by the brass on the Hundred And Twentieth Floor as the first in a wave of mass-produced models no doubt designed to be outsourced as economies of scale were achieved and cost effectiveness kicked in. As he stared at the strange looking contraption with a mixture of equal parts awe and trepidation, Bendix couldn’t help but think how it somehow reminded him of the coffee machine his grandmother used to keep in her kitchen, way back in the days before The Takeover. For a split second he was back in what used to be called Kentucky, at a place he used to know as home, with people he used to call family, perched at a kitchen table sipping on a hot oily liquid that steamed lazily from a cracked mug emblazoned with the logo of some now long defunct tractor dealership. He furrowed his brow in a concerted effort to ignite the recall cells deep within his cranium, but it was useless. The Department Of Truth had done their job far too well. Say what you like, but those boffins really knew their stuff. They could wipe you clean and you’d never even know it. Until you tried to access your History Files, that is. Then you’d discover just who was really in the driving seat. Bendix opened his eyes and was immediately transported back to what The Bureau liked to call The Moment, but had once been known as Virtual Reality. Cranfield was holding a freshly delivered infant in his outstretched arms.

“Here”, he said, squinting as the hazy blue smoke from a Hero drifted up his face to a collision course with his right eye. “Your turn”.

“Hhmm…” The response said it all.

“Listen” said Cranfield, a faint spark of irritation igniting his voice. “In five minutes I’m out of here. I’ve been waiting a long time for this vacation, and I’m not going to have it delayed one nano-second longer than is absolutely necessary simply because my so called assistant is having trouble handling a three hour old Underling.

Bendix wiped his sweaty palms down the front of his refrigerator white lab coat, taking care not to soil the sponsors logo, and stared at his boss with what he knew was a nervous glance but, lost in translation, hoped instead was a clear sign of conviction.

“Sorry boss”, he grovelled. “I’m right back in The Zone. Just tell me one more time how it works, and I swear to Crown Prince Jehovah himself that I’ll get it. Then you can grab your bag, step into that Transportation Unit, hit the button, and be on Saturn Beach before you can say Bob’s your uncle.

“I have no relatives who go by that name,” replied Cranfield icily, stubbing out the butt of his Standard Issue cigarette in the centre of an already overcrowded ashtray. Crikey, thought Bendix as he took the infant, swung it on to its back, and jammed the tube into its tiny mouth; the job’s really starting to get to him.

As if somehow reading his minions mind, Cranfield gave a painful grimace. The type that read: peptic ulcer or early onset cardiac murmurs.

“Right. Listen up! You take The Underling, flip it on its back, stick the business end of the tube into its cakehole, press ‘Dispense’, wait ten seconds, and that’s it. Repeat the process five times a day, remembering to up the dosage by ten percent each time. After that instigate the paperwork, sign off the despatch notes, and then shunt ‘em off to Primary Assessment. They’ll take it from there”.

“So tell me” asked Bendix as his boss hung up his lab coat and reached for his burnt orange windcheater, the one emblazoned with the company logo: Mereruka Enterprises Inc – Delivering Tomorrow’s Future Today. “What’s the thinking behind all this? I mean, it seems like an awful lot of trouble. What’s the payoff”?

Cranfield stared at him as the Pod door began to close, tossing back the kind of look which suggested that, if he had his way, he’d make that vacation permanent.

“Surely it’s self explanatory” he sighed, like a history teacher explaining the Fourth World War for the fifth time to a particularly reluctant Sixth Grader. “These Newlies are what we here in Selective Correctives like to call The Foie Gras Generation. We intercept at birth, embark them on a five-day program of Intensified Intervention, and then return them from whence they came. Outwardly they look the same, act the same, even smell the same, but inwardly they’re different. Why? Because of the stuff we feed them. It’s not called Brain Food for nothing. Each one of those little tykes has been programmed by The Party. They’re the next generation of automatons. Human cyborgs, if you like. Take my word for it – things will never be the same again once this bunch reach puberty. This particular batch are being hotwired for something. Don’t ask me what because I don’t rightly know, although I heard on the grapevine it’s something to do with bypassing their remorse circuits. See that little bugger you’re holding? Number 6549X3EK7. By the time he’s old enough he’ll be a fully-fledged serial killer, only of course, he’ll be doing it for us. Weeding out agitators and undesirables in the name of The People. Oh yes! Things are going to change around here, you mark my words. This, Bendix old boy, is only the beginning!”

As the pod door closed and the Departure sign glowed red, Bendix glanced down at the squirming infant and, as its hungry eyes gazed back, he swore he saw the cold hearted sneer of a fully fledged psycho flicker across its angelic face.

Cranfield was right. Things were most definitely changing.