The Fortress

  The Fortress

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  ANIN

  ANNOD

  ETTËVY

  CEB

  ANIN

  GLOSSARY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright

  Pages

  Titlepage 1

  Dedication 1

  Epigraph 1

  ANIN

  ANNOD

  ETTËVY

  CEB

  ANIN

  GLOSSARY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright-page 2

  Guide

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  The Fortress

  S. A. Jones

  In memory of Madge Hunt (1928–2015), who knew that words matter

  Work. History. Sex. Justice.

  A moving body is a creative body. It produces the food on our plates, the walls that protect us and the art that delights us.

  We created and re-create ourselves by standing apart. We honour they who won us our solitude, but we are not petrified.

  Pleasure consists in the freedom to, and the freedom from, and every Vaik will herself determine in what measure these things are best.

  We are instruments of the sovereignty of all women, and do not shrink from the sacrifice this entails.

  Work. History. Sex. Justice.

  We are Vaik.

  I

  ANIN

  Jonathon Bridge pressed the buzzer beside the imposing iron gate and waited. He had never been so near to The Fortress before. For most of his life the white, glittering structure on the hilltop had simply been a historical fact. There, like his mother had been there. In the glare of sunlight it shimmered and levitated above the city. Now, up close, Jonathon saw that the whiteness of the exterior wall was created by a mosaic of mother-of-pearl and mirror. The tiles fractured his face and reflected it back, in pieces.

  “Mr. Bridge?” A voice crackled through the intercom beside the gate.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve been expecting you. One moment, please.”

  There was a wheeze, then a groan, as if a mighty machine were firing up. The gate unlatched and opened an inch or two.

  “You may enter.”

  Jonathon hesitated. He turned and looked back down the steep hill to the city. Somewhere out there in the tangled motherboard of freeways and skyscrapers, bright lights and cubicles, was his office. And his home. It would be a long time before he saw them again.

  He shouldered the gate wider and entered a small grassed enclosure. The gate clanged shut behind him, making him start.

  A few birds pecked at the ground, undisturbed by his presence. “Walk towards the door directly in front of you,” said the disembodied voice.

  Jonathon looked for its source but could find nothing.

  The door opened before he reached it, and a slim, androgynous figure bowed in greeting. This person, Jonathon thought, must be an electii.

  “Welcome.” The figure stood aside to let him enter the hallway, which was long and high and lit only by muted globes set into the ceiling. The dense air seemed to part as he inched forward, reforming behind him. He heard a blip and looked around.

  “Metal detector,” said the electii. “Keep going.”

  The closed doors on either side were black slabs cut deep into the wall. Jonathon passed maybe a dozen doors until he came to an open room. He stepped inside, squinting into the gloom.

  The electii entered, softly, behind him. “Once your eyes have adjusted, you will observe that there is a wicker basket in the corner. Place your clothes, jewellery and personal effects into the basket. When you have disrobed, I will position you for examination. Take your time. There is no rush.”

  It took a moment for Jonathon to make out the basket against the wall, then he slipped his silk-lined jacket from his shoulders. He flinched slightly at the recent memory of five women arrayed against him, his jacket hoisted before them like a standard. He folded the jacket gingerly, as if it might bite him, and placed it in the basket. Cufflinks, wallet and keys followed, then his belt, shirt, underwear and pants. Lastly, his shoes and socks. He placed the shoes sole-upwards on his bespoke trousers.

  Naked, he returned to the centre of the room and waited. The electii came towards him and Jonathon noticed the peculiar sound—

  An outrush of breath and a vigorous rubbing of hands, then the electii took Jonathon’s elbow and guided him to the wall. “I need you to stand spread-eagled, taking your weight in your fingers.”

  Jonathon listened closely to the electii’s voice but could not say whether it was male or female. It bothered him, the not knowing. He spread his long, elegant fingers against the wall and tipped himself towards it.

  The electii probed at Jonathon’s ankles and moved upwards; thorough and practised hands searched for contraband, weapons or messages. Jonathon heard the stretch and slap of a rubber glove being forced onto a hand and braced himself. The questioning fingers eased down the moist slice dividing his bum cheeks.

  “Take a deep breath, Mr. Bridge.”

  Jonathon exhaled and clawed at the wall a little as the electii’s finger probed his rectum.

  “That part is over,” said the electii, as if Jonathon were a small child at the dentist, “but stay still.” There was the stretch and slap of the glove again as it was removed and discarded. Jonathon breathed in and out as soundlessly as he could. The electii squeezed his balls and turned them in half-circles one way and then the other. What, Jonathon thought, could possibly be hidden in there?

  The hands moved upwards, probing his abdomen, his underarms, his shoulderblades.

  “Excuse me,” the electii said, pinching Jonathon’s nostrils four times in rapid succession then delving into the folds of his ears.

  Jonathon had many questions for the electii and if he wanted to ask them, it had to be now. He knew from his reading that there were no electii beyond The Veya Gate and, even if there had been, questions were forbidden past that point. But somehow the very intimacy the electii had forced on him just now made him uncharacteristically shy.

  “Thank you,” the electii said formally. “Please stand at ease.”

  At ease? Jonathon nearly laughed out loud. Mate, you’ve just been knuckle-deep in my arse.

  “Here.” The electii removed a gown from the wall and handed it to Jonathon. “Run it through your hands, get used to the feel of it.”

  This was masjythra, a fabric made and worn only at The Fortress. It felt like the metal mesh of a purse his wife had once owned, but incredibly light. It also felt strangely animate, as if it might slither away if he dropped it.

  “Let me help you,” the electii offered.

  A head taller than the electii, Jonathon bent down so that the garment could be dropped over his head. The electii smoothed the fabric across his back and shoulders. Nothing happened for a moment or two, and then the gown pulsed and slid across his torso, melding to his folds and hollows. Jonathon swore in surprise under his breath.

  “You get used to it.”

  The gown stopped mid-thigh. Jonathon tested his range of movement, stretching his arms above his head and raising up on the balls of his feet. He bent to touch his toes—or his knees, rather. The garment moved with him like a skin, emitting the clinking-ice sound he’d heard earlier. He turned away and gave his balls an experimental scratch. He felt strange outside the confines of his underwear. Untidy. He scratched himself again.

  “Reach around behind your neck,” said the electii, “and locate the hood.”

  Jonathon pinched the material where it met the base of his skull and pulled it away from his body. It yielded after a microsecond and he slipped his hand beneath it. He pulled out a length of material and draped it over his head. The metallic squares twitched then traced his skull, leaving his face exposed.

  “If you are ever in Her presence,” the electii said, “you must immediately place the hood on and leave it on unless She tells you otherwise.”

  Jonathon turned his head sharply. “When will I see Her?”

  “Impossible to say. Maybe soon. Maybe never.”

  A wild violence flashed through Jonathon’s blood. He wanted the definitive. A yes or a no. AC or DC. You chose this, he reminded himself.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bridge,” an apologetic clearing of the throat, “but I’m going to have to take your wedding ring, too. No personal effects are permitted.”

  Jonathon placed a protective hand over the gold band. You chose this, he reminded himself again. Not too long ago he’d thought choice was a straightforward proposition. Now he knew better. He circled the wedding band with his thumb and index finger but couldn’t pull it past his knuckle. From the shadows, the electii offered him a small saucer. He dipped a finger in. It was oil, probably the same oil the electii had used to ease his (or her?) finger into Jonathon’s rectum.

  The oil loosened the ring, and he was able to pull it over his knuckle and slip it off. The white strip on his ring finger glared in the darkness.

  “Give the ring to me, please.”

  As Jonathon handed the ring to the electii he couldn’t help saying, “Take care of that.”

  “I will,” the electii said kindly.

  When Jonathon and his wife had first discussed having a baby, Adalia said she thought the electii were lucky, in a way. “At least they get some choice in the matter instead of having male or female foisted on them.” Jonatho
n hadn’t wanted an argument so he’d just shrugged.

  “This is where we say goodbye,” the electii told him. “I can’t accompany you into the second chamber. Go back to the hallway and continue walking away from the entrance. Enter the next open door you find, which will be directly in front of you. Good luck, Mr. Bridge.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye. And good luck to you, too,” he said, though he didn’t know what the electii would consider lucky.

  Jonathon returned to the hallway, turned left and shuffled towards the chamber. The doors continued on either side of him, locked and completely silent. Did they house other supplicants, come like him to make a fresh start of things? He’d read all the literature he could find on Vaik civilisation, but it was scant on practical details. Ahead of him he saw a chink of light around a door. He pushed it open (it was surprisingly heavy) and was dazzled by the brightness on the other side. He held his hand between his eyes and the light for a few seconds, then lowered it, slowly.

  He was in a rectangular room where swirls of red and blue tiles chased each other across the walls. Large windows the shape of bishop’s hats framed the lapis lazuli sky. The room was perfumed with something sweet and grassy. A brass samovar and red glass goblets stood on a table beneath one of the windows.

  “Would you like tea?”

  Jonathon turned towards the voice. A woman gave a slight nod in greeting then poured from the samovar. She gestured towards one of the plump cushions dotted across the floor.

  “Please, sit down.”

  Jonathon lowered himself awkwardly to the ground, monitoring the stay of his hem. He wasn’t as limber as he’d once been. Long lunches and immobile hours in front of a computer screen had reeled in his joints. The woman watched him coolly. When he was seated on the cushion, she passed him the goblet of tea.

  “Should I keep the hood on?” Jonathon asked her hopefully. She smiled, amused. “I’m not The Woman, so you may remove the hood if you so choose. How is your tea?”

  He took a sip. It was hot and sweet with an aftertaste of aniseed, nothing like the bitter black coffee he usually drank.

  “I tend the gardens between The Dryans coast and the eastern buildings. You are assigned to me.”

  Assigned?

  She wasn’t Jonathon’s type; that is to say, she wasn’t pert-breasted and young with burnished salon-skin. Her long auburn hair fell in messy waves down her back and she was pale, almost reflectively so. Jonathon vaguely wondered how she kept her skin so white under the sun in the gardens. He found it impossible to guess her age. Perhaps late thirties, perhaps early forties. Around his age. He couldn’t imagine fucking her.

  “Lift up your masjythra.”

  “What?”

  Her brows arrowed above her flinty green eyes. Jonathon rested the goblet on the ground beside him and lifted the robe to his upper thigh.

  “Higher.”

  He kept lifting until his cock and balls were in full view. He had a strong urge to stand up so he could suck his stomach in and flex his thighs. The way he did with the poodles. Instead he sat there obediently, holding up his gown for a stranger’s forensic observation.

  “You can lower the masjythra now.”

  Was she impressed? Disappointed? Bored? Her impassive face gave nothing away.

  “We take very few supplicants, and those we do, we have to be sure can adapt to life here. I’ve read your file.” She paused to take a sip of tea, then held his eyes with her level gaze. “Your wife is pregnant.”

  This didn’t seem to be a question, so Jonathon didn’t reply.

  “Your wife is five months pregnant. You will miss the birth of your first child. Does that trouble you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that trouble your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why are you here?”

  You have my file, he thought. You probably know the reasons better than I do.

  “I want to be a good father,” he said. “I don’t know another way of doing that. Becoming that. Better I miss the birth than the rest of her life.”

  She inclined her head to one side. “Her? Your file doesn’t specify a gender.”

  “We don’t know the baby’s sex. For some reason I think of her as a her. Anyway, it sounds much better than ‘it.’”

  “You want to be a good father. Why don’t you go to prenatal classes? That’s what most men would do.”

  “I’m not most men.”

  “That’s what most men say.”

  Jonathon grew impatient, as he always did when people were cryptic. He reached up to adjust his tie, his habit when annoyed, then remembered he wasn’t wearing one. The masjythra shifted around his collarbone.

  “My wife wanted me to come,” he said flatly. “It was the only condition on which she’d take me back.”

  The woman gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “A poor reason. It lacks conviction on your part. Acting on someone else’s wishes won’t be enough to sustain you here.”

  “I’ve been accepted, haven’t I?”

  “Yes. You have. But this is your last opportunity to reconsider. Once you pass through The Veya Gate and into The Fortress proper, there’s no going back. You see out your time. One year. I urge you to think better of it.”

  He shook his head.

  “Your relationship to the Vaik and your status here will be unlike anything you have experienced before. It is almost impossible to give you an accurate analogy of your relationship to us. I can tell you what you, and we, are not.

  “The Fortress is not a jail, although you will be held under guard if you break our laws. You are not a prisoner, but your movements, your time, your labour will be almost entirely regulated. The Vaik will direct when and what you eat, when you sleep, when you rise. Every eleventh day you will have half a day to spend according to your inclination and wishes. This is known as ‘the half.’ You are free to roam around a prescribed area of the grounds. On all other days the spaces you inhabit and what you do there will be directed by us.

  “Perhaps the most difficult thing to grasp about your relationship to us is the nature of your submission. While you stay with us you are to obey all Vaik commands and you are forbidden to ask questions of us unless explicitly authorised. But we are not in a master-serf relationship. You are not chattel, and our obligations to you are as strong and binding as those you owe to us. When you come to us it must be in a state of willingness to empty yourself out and entrust yourself to us. Without that trust your supplicancy will be futile. You may as well return to your life right now. Your subjectivity must be given to us freely and entirely. We will keep it until you return through The Veya Gate. We will not return it beforehand under any circumstances.

  “You will see and experience things that will be strange to you, that may offend your notions of what is good and right. But you have offered your will up to the Vaik, and you are our vessel. You must learn to hold yourself in a state of suspension, which is not at all the same thing as apathy. Some men think they can come here and close themselves off for a year, fold into a pocket deep in their souls and then unfold again at the end of their time. This serves no one. It is a trick, a deceit to hold power while pretending to cede it.

  “Whatever your male friends may have told you, we are not in a relationship of subordinates and dominants. Our authority over you is real and entirely tangible. There is no safe word you can utter that will make the power flow differently between us. We have dungeons here. Whips and chains. But they’re not props and The Fortress isn’t a sadomasochistic theatre.”

  Her mouth twitched slightly. “We have had supplicants in the past who were,” she paused, “misinformed about our culture. The reality came as rather a shock.”

  “Well,” he said, “to be fair, there’s not a great deal of credible literature on the role and place of supplicants in Vaik culture. I went looking for it. Almost no one who’s been a supplicant writes about it afterwards. I assumed that silence was part of the contract.”

  She shook her head. “We impose no prescription on what supplicants do or say once they leave The Fortress. How could we? We have no jurisdiction outside the perimeter wall and would have no way of enforcing it if we did. I suspect the silence derives from the difficulty of translation. I have lived in your world, so I know how difficult it is to draw comparisons. I can’t tell you ‘life here is like x or like y,’ because it’s not. You will find the same thing when you leave. You’ll meet very few people capable of understanding what you will understand in a year’s time.