Page 156 of Crocodile Tears

He bent over while the bot probed his anus and asked about his sexual history. It had been programmed to have a cheerful female voice, completely at odds with the nature of the exam. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on breathing.

“This is for the sale procedure,” the bot explained. “You’ll be listed on the IS Agency site, and prospective buyers will obviously want to know what they’re purchasing.”

The bot politely requested that Alex hold out his arm, then approached him with a syringe.

“What’s that?” Alex asked, alarmed at being injected with some unknown substance.

“You don’t have a right to know, but the good news is I’m permitted to tell you,” the bot replied, managing to sound both jolly and officious at the same time. “While you said your vaccinations are up to date, it wouldn’t be fair on your future houder if you were sold without this precaution. It’s a standard multi-vax shot, including against STDs, so nothing to worry about.” The medibot jabbed the needle into Alex’s arm to punctuate that.

“Finally, the moment I’m sure you’ve been waiting for – your microchip.”

Alex wondered who’d programmed the damn thing to sound so excited about it.

“You’ll be registered in the Indentured Servant Agency database, so you can be tracked. Your chip contains all your personal details – name, date of birth, IS number, and so on.” The medibot scooped the chip into the syringe attachment on one of its arms. “It’s also a GPS locator, so please don’t try to escape. It’s a legal requirement that I inform you that if the chip is cut out it’ll emit an alert to the IS Agency, transmitting your last verifiable location.”

The bot’s voice changed from cheery to solemn as it read out a legal statement. “You are a convicted felon, and your houder is your de facto jailer for the duration of your sentence. As such, they are allowed, under IS law, to punish you by keeping you confined to a room for long periods with minimal basic food rations and making you undertake tedious physical labour within parameters approved by the IS Agency. If your behaviour persists, they have recourse to a variety of perfectly legal actions that could result in significant physical discomfort. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Alex lowered his head, surrendering to the humiliation of his new condition.

“You’re required to record that understanding, so you can’t deny it later.” The medibot reverted to its previous chirpy tone of voice as it gave him a nanopad to register his approval.

Alex read through the legal statement, but it simply repeated the bot’s words. He pressed his biometric agreement, had his retina scanned, and handed back the nanopad.

“Thank you. You’ll feel it pinch as it goes in and have a bruise for a day or two, but nothing to worry about.” The medibot held the gun over Alex’s wrist and took firm hold of his arm. There was a loud whooshing sound and a sudden jolt.

“There – all done.”

Alex examined the red mark it had left on his flesh; there was a small hole, oozing blood, where the chip had gone in.

“Just need to activate it…” The medibot held a small electronic device over his wrist and the chip lit up, blinking redly under his skin.

Alex had seen microchips flashing in the wrists of the various indentured servants he’d known over the years and paid them no attention.Now he had one inside his own body, he wanted to take a knife and cut it out.

The chip itself didn’t hurt, beyond a mild throb where it had been inserted, but the fact of it registering his every move felt suffocating. He had to take a few breaths to calm himself.

“That concludes your physical assessment,” the medibot informed him. “It’ll be uploaded to the system, and then the bidding will begin. You should be starting your new life as an IS within a couple of weeks.”

“I can’t wait,” Alex murmured.

“You may be contacted to complete a survey about your experience here today. Please advise if you would be willing to answer a few questions for the chance of winning a five-hundred-pound cash card,” the medibot said cheerily.

“Fuck off.”

The medibot didn’t seem put out by this response. It just ploughed on with its script.

“Thank you for your cooperation and best wishes in all your future endeavours.”

The whole procedure had taken the best part of a day. Alex was issued a set of blue prison overalls and taken to a new cell. It was small and grey – much like his previous cell – but it felt very different. He’d been stripped of everything. He was a blank slate, waiting for someone to buy him and scrawl all over him.

Lying down on the bunk, he stared blankly at the ceiling, his fingers seeking out the small lump on his wrist that was winking persistently in the dark. He closed his eyes tightly to hold back the tears.

Who would buy his contract, and what would they require him to do? It could be anything from office work to hard physical labour. A felon couldn’t be contracted to offer sexual services, but that was small comfort given his situation.

He was acutely aware that his life was now completely outside his own control. Neil, Spencer, and all the other indentured servants his family employed had seemed happy enough with their lot. They had a roof over their heads, clothes to wear, and food to eat. Their servitude had been a blessing, a way to avoid the government work camps or theQuarterlands. But there was a big difference between their condition and his.

They had sold themselves to houders of their choosing and had specified the terms of their contract. They could also ask for their indenture to be rescinded before their term was up – although it would mean forfeiture of a portion of their fee, and their houder might not agree to it.

He didn’t have any of those options, and it would be years before there was even a chance of someone buying his freedom back. In the space of a few short weeks he’d lost everything – and he only had himself to blame.

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