Exhibition
by J.M. Kaye
The glass box was eight feet square and four feet high; there was enough room to stretch out but not enough to stand up. Sheila had barely registered this fact before a blinding spike of pain drove through the top of her head.
"God," she groaned, rubbing her scalp, fingers burrowing through curly black hair in an attempt to massage the pain away. Her throat burned, she was dehydrated, was that the cause of the headache, or was it—
She remembered showing up for work that morning, only to be confronted by two men from the Employment Reassignment Bureau. They had said they were taking her in for "a talk," and Sheila had expected the usual you've-been-a-bad-girl lecture. Instead the hypodermic needle came out and jabbed her arm, then suddenly, this glass box.
The pain subsided, slowly, and only then did Sheila realize that her clothes were missing.
She'd really done it this time. Pissed off the wrong person, once too often. But why was she still alive? Where was she?
The sheets of glass composing the box were mounted on a steel frame. Sheila could see outside; the box appeared to be in a dimly lit room. The box was set on a pedestal about four feet off the ground. Sheila ran a finger experimentally over the glass wall, and noticed that it left no mark. She recognized it immediately as anti-reflective glass, very strong and very thick. All along the top edge of the box were air vents; Sheila thought she could see ducts attached to the roof of her prison. Columns of tiny lights ran down the side rails of the frame, but these lights were turned off at the moment. Near the bottom of the box, at each corner, was a small microphone and speaker, the kind Sheila was accustomed to seeing in banks and at movie theaters. The carpet she was sitting on was dark red, but faded, as though it had been washed many times. There was no sound in the box except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the pounding of Sheila's pulse.
Sheila closed her eyes and rubbed her head again. Her headache was gone, but the action soothed her nerves somewhat.
She did not know how much time had passed, when she heard a noise and looked up, startled. She had not noticed it before, but one side of the box had a door, framed in steel like the rest of the case. It was open, and two armed and uniformed men were shoving someone inside.
"Hey--!" Sheila began, but the guards had already slammed the door and were walking away. Sheila realized then that both the microphones and the speakers were turned off; they could not hear her any better than she could hear them.
She turned to look at the box's new occupant. It was a man, also naked, and unconscious as Sheila must have been when they first locked her in. He was about the same age as Sheila; early thirties, with rust-brown hair, a sturdy build, and a tanned complexion with a few freckles. Sheila thought that his eyes, when they were open, were probably blue or green.
He was nice looking enough, but nothing special, nothing that would get him on a magazine cover or a TV show. Sheila thought that the same description might just as well apply to her, and glanced down at herself to make sure that she still resembled the woman she had seen in the mirror that morning. Same pale, slender body, still a bit soft in places, but tighter now due to the last six months of physical labor.
Things were beginning to make sense, and at the same time, made no sense. Why her? Why him?
The man made a strange, snorting noise as he began to regain consciousness. His eyes fluttered open. Greenish-blue, and frightened.
Sheila put a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be all right." Although she was in the same predicament that he was, she had been in there longer, which gave her a vague feeling of being responsible for doling out whatever small comfort she could offer.
"Water?" he croaked.
"There isn't any. I'm sorry."
Sheila thought that watching her new companion awaken was like watching a video of herself, taken a few hours previously. First he rubbed his head, then became aware of his nudity and sat up quickly, his hands modestly over his crotch. Sheila didn't bother to cover herself; it seemed like a pointless thing to do.
The man looked around, taking in his surroundings, just as Sheila had. He finally glanced over at Sheila. "Who are you?"
"My name's Sheila. I think I'm in trouble with the Employment Reassignment Bureau. What about you?"
"I'm Tom. I guess I'm in trouble too."
"What do you do?"
"Limo driver," said Tom bitterly, "but I was a software engineer."
Sheila nodded. "Housekeeper, formerly museum curator. Let me guess, you showed up for work today, and—"
"And a couple of goons from the E.R.B. were there first?" Tom interrupted. "Yeah."
They both looked at each other in silent understanding.
"What did you do?" Tom asked.
"Nothing, really," Sheila replied. "I did my job, at least I tried to. I never talked back or did anything wrong, but they kept complaining about my 'attitude.' Something about the look on my face. What did you do?"
"Crashed the limo. Completely by accident, of course. What I can't figure out is why we're still alive. Why weren't we killed, like all the other resistors?"
Sheila shrugged. "Maybe this is what happens to people who don't actually resist, but don't go along quietly, either. People have been disappearing over the past few months."
"What is this place?"
Sheila made a gesture, encompassing both their bodies, and the box they were in. "Isn't it obvious? This is a display."
"Yeah, but for what?"
"What do you think?" Sheila asked wearily.
For a moment, Tom looked blank. Then awareness sank in. "Fuck!"
"Something like that, yes."
Tom looked at Sheila sideways. "You have a really weird sense of humor."
"Heads up," Sheila mumbled. She had caught sight of a movement in the room outside the box.
A man was approaching. Sheila and Tom instinctively scooted as far back as they could.
The stranger was tall, with iron-gray hair and a suit in almost exactly the same color. His features were sharp, but his expression was incongruously gentle. He smiled at the captives, who stared back suspiciously. He walked up to the box, made a motion with his hand, and the speakers clicked on.
"Good afternoon Sheila, Tom," the man said pleasantly. Sheila saw Tom's expression change; a slight flaring of the nostrils and curling of the lip. She prayed that he wouldn't say anything stupid.
"We're very thirsty," Sheila spoke in the toneless voice she used for her superiors. "We'd like some water."
"That will come later, after we've talked," the man replied.
"Who the hell are you?" Tom snarled. Sheila cringed.
"My name is none of your concern, you may simply call me 'Boss, '" the stranger answered. "Now, you both seem to be intelligent people, I'm sure by now you've guessed why you're here."
Tom started to reply, but Sheila cut him off. "Why us?" she asked, trying to sound as reasonable as she possibly could. "There are plenty of people you could pay to put on a show, people better-looking than us—"
"This is a much simpler solution," Boss replied. "We are giving you one last chance to make yourselves useful in the new society."
"We were useful!" Tom protested.
Boss shook his head. "The new society demands cheerful obedience from its servants. You have been obedient, but not cheerful."
"I'll be cheerful!" Sheila said desperately. "Just let—"
"No, Sheila, I'm afraid I've seen too many of your kind before. You manage to maintain the illusion of happiness for a week, perhaps two, and then it crumbles. The new society does not like unhappy servants, unhappiness means discontent, and discontent leads to rebellion." Boss looked at them sternly. "We've tried drugs, but you have both refused your medications. We do not have time to shove it down your throats every day."
"So why don't you kill us?" Tom asked belligerently.
Boss laughed. "Is that really what you want?"
Sheila and Tom did not reply, and did not look at each other.
"I thought not," said Boss. "People like you are a nuisance, afraid to fight, but too proud to submit, always doing just enough to get by, but never any more. Very hard to root out, very hard to deal with. But as I said before, we've found a simple solution: Your pride, your reluctance, will be put to work in our favor." He paused to look at the prisoners, as though expecting them to speak.
"In other words," Sheila said at last "the show is more exciting if both parties are unwilling."
"Exactly," Boss beamed at them. "And that is why we don't simply hire professionals for these exhibitions. It was a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself."
"What if we refuse?" Tom growled.
"If one of you refuses, both of you will be killed," Boss answered bluntly. He glanced at his watch. "I will give you two hours to make up your minds. After that, we will either need to get you ready for the show, or give this box to someone else." He turned to leave.
"Hang on," said Tom. "I have to go to the bathroom. You don't want me to mess up your display, do you?"
"Certainly not." Boss gestured to someone out of Sheila's field of vision, and the two guards appeared. "Escort the young man to the lavatories, and bring him straight back here." He switched off the sound.
Sheila hoped that Tom's request was really the beginning of an ingenious escape plan, but five minutes later he was back in the box, looking disgruntled.
"There's heavies ...