S-Energy

The Imperial Talent Agency’s Director of Personnel grinned evilly at the twenty-five year old man squirming in the chair on the other side of his desk. Rumor had it he had picked his position over other more glamorous jobs because it allowed him to discipline, i.e. torture, the indentured recruits on a whim without any fear of reprisal. The rumors were based in fact. Thurston Beauregard was a small, petty man locked in a fat, slovenly body. He had thirty years with the Agency which meant he was a lifer, one who stayed by choice, very much unlike most of the agency personnel like the young man sitting across from him.

Physical torture wasn’t his style. He much preferred to mentally dissect his prey and pin them to the examining table until they screamed at the inherent unfairness of the system. Their cries for mercy were sweet music to his ears and much more satisfying than mere screams of pain. Besides, the Agency would never let him go so far as to physically torture them he was sure ― pretty sure, anyway. There was also the fact, he had to admit, that almost every recruit they conscripted could and probably would beat him to within an inch of his life if he ever actually touched them.

“Well, Cranson, you finally fucked up big this time,” he chuckled. The subject of his barb looked slightly morose but did little more than shrug. Beauregard frowned and pursed his lips; he had hoped for more of a reaction. His prey was taking this far too lightly. “What do you have to say for yourself?” he barked.

“Nothing,” was the sullen reply.

“Nothing?You don’t even deny the charge?”

“Of course not,” came the disgusted answer. “If I did, you’d have a truth-teller here in a heartbeat. I’m not going to get caught lying to a superior.”

Beauregard frowned even more. Lying to a superior was about the worst crime there was in the agency. Being caught doing it would at least add years to your indenture or at worst get you time in SA (Suspended Animation). With SA they brought in a specialist who put you in a trance that left your body frozen in time. You didn’t breathe, didn’t feel, needed no food or water ― it was like you were frozen in a block of ice. Unfortunately your mind didn’t freeze with the rest of your body. You were completely awake and able to perceive everything around you. Those whose minds survived the torment said it was like continuously feeling you were drowning but being unable to do anything about it, not even scream. The very few that didn’t come out gibbering idiots said they would have much preferred being beaten every day than to be put through it again.

Naturally Beauregard was hoping Cranson would have lied and become eligible for this discipline. Unfortunate, but it looked like he had to do it the old-fashioned way.

“What you did was reprehensible and disgusting,” Beauregard continued as if Cranson hadn’t said anything. Marlin Cranson tended to agree with the fat bastard’s assessment although after discovering more facts post-incident he allowed that maybe he wasn’t entirely at fault in the whole fiasco. “You showed a remarkable lack of judgment.” Marlin agreed whole-heartedly with that. “And an inability to conform to the minimum moral standards required in polite society.” What he didn’t add was that it was illegal, but the only reason he didn’t was because technically what occurred wasn’t against the law, just frowned upon strongly.

“Because of this the Inspector General has decided to overlook your more egregious behavior and has mercifully only requested you be posted somewhere else so this entire incident can be forgotten.” Marlin understood that to mean since they couldn’t put him in SA, jail or something even worse, the IG wanted him buried under a rock somewhere.

“Marlin, Marlin, Marlin,” Beauregard shook his head sadly. You could almost see the crocodile tears running down his fat cheeks. “What are we going to do with you?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Marlin grumbled sarcastically. “Take me away from my home; mark me as a mutant and freak to ninety percent of mankind; steal the best twenty years of my life; make me a virtual slave with almost no pay, no benefits and of course no retirement leaving me at the end of my faithful service old, broke and, oh yes, the best part, still hated by nearly everyone I happen to meet. Why don’t we start with that and see where it takes us?”

“Cranson,” Beauregard puffed importantly. “It is an honor and a privilege to be chosen for the Talent Agency. Only a few are selected and the service you provide to the empire is invaluable and well respected. Even if you don’t appreciate the honor you’ve been afforded I can tell you for a fact your country needs and values your service.”

“Sure it does,” Marlin laughed. “Having a truth-teller auditing taxes sure helps squeeze that extra penny or two, like blood out of the stone. I’m sure having a mind-reader weaseling about out among the unwashed masses helps ferret out those nasty little revolutionaries too. And of course let’s not forget the future-seer keeping our benevolent leaders safe when that bloodless stone, now starving because you’ve squeezed him for everything he has and has lost the family farm, thinks about sticking a knife in their ribs.” Marlin shook his head in disgust. “You slap cuffs on my arms and drag me away from home while my parents gape at me like I’m some kind of monster, force me to work for twenty years for wages that would make a slave scoff and then talk to me about honor? You can have it.”

“You have Talent, Cranson,” Beauregard growled. “Without the protection of the Agency you would be a danger to the normals of our land and though their own ignorance they would be a danger to you.”

“Some protection,” Marlin taunted. “I understand being torn apart by a lynch mob is still the leading cause of death for our field agents. That and suicide from loneliness.”

“These unfortunate incidents do happen at times,” Beauregard admitted. “These atrocities are fully investigated and the perpetrators are found and always brought to justice.”

“Fat lot of good it does the field agent who’s spread out like a bacon stain on some village green,” Marlin growled.

“Be that as it may,” Beauregard smiled and steepled his fingers. “I think it’s time we put your considerable Talent to useful service.”

“Considerable Talent?” Marlin snorted. “I just barely triggered the Talent level necessary to be drafted into this chicken-shit outfit.”

“Quite enough, I assure you,” the smile broadened. “After all if it wasn’t good enough it wouldn’t be the minimum. I think what you need is some seasoning. Some time as a field scout would suit you perfectly.”

“A Scout!” Marlin blurted incredulously. “You have got to be fucking kidding! I have nothing a Scout would need!”