The Orion Plague by David VanDyke

aflame but not
consumed. Films of red lined his vision like celluloid curtains,
and his limbs floated on coals of pain. Glowing brands rooted
through his blood vessels, gouging channels in his muscles, through
his flesh. Nerves died and were reborn, rerouted, rekindled until
the flames warmed his bones and the touch of pain brought him to
ecstasy. Inside the chambers of his mind he sobbed, unable to
control or resist.
    As he floated in the womblike furnace, Shari
was always there, always whispering. He hated himself, but she
became his anchor, his focus, the only thing he could hold onto
even as he cried out save me to a silent God. Her presence
brought him shivering rapture even while shriveling his soul with
hellfire.
    He desperately held on to what he could,
reciting to himself, My hope is in the Lord and forgive
me, over and over, trying to absolve himself of responsibility
for what he could not control. Not my fault, he told
himself, then cried out as his body and brain betrayed him with
seizures of heaven and hell once again.
     
     

 
     
-7-

    “The conditioning is proceeding
satisfactorily?” The voice came from an impeccably-manicured man of
young middle age, from a face well known to the viewers of the
Union News Network over the past decade: Winthrop Jenkins. No
number after his name, but he was the eldest living of the Jenkins
clan and thus should control great power and wealth. In his
estimation the Septagon Shadow program was the key to reclaiming
what he had lost with the fall of the Unionists.
    “Of course,” Sharion Prandra purred. “I am
seeing to it personally. Still,” she arched one eyebrow, “nothing
is certain when dealing with such bleeding-edge techniques and
technologies.” She turned to gesture at the Burn Room visible
through the one-way glass, at Rick Johnstone strapped to the
stainless-steel table.
    “So you have told me. I understand, Doctor,
you need to cover your ass in case it doesn’t work. Don’t worry,
I’m not the type of man to punish the occasional hiccup, as long as
your overall record demonstrates your effectiveness.”
    “It does, and it will, Your Eminence. The
rewiring of his nervous system and the electrostimulator web we
have implanted in his brain is the most effective way we have
identified for overcoming any compunctions he may have against
obeying our directives. Pavlovian conditioning – pain and pleasure,
fed directly into the respective cerebral structures – has proven
irresistible.” She smiled, a thing of queasy satisfaction.
    “I suppose if I was hammered with waves of
pain or orgasmic pleasure, I would learn to comply as well.”
Jenkins’ voice was musing, detached, belying his horrified feeling
at contemplating mind control – no, to be fair, to contemplate
anyone controlling his mind.
    “It’s not merely the pain and pleasure, it’s
the fear of pain and the hope of pleasure that really
breaks them,” Shari answered. “Did you know that intermittent and
semi-correlated consequences – good or bad – are many times more
effective than predictable ones?”
    “Really?” Jenkins raised his eyebrows in
skepticism. “That seems counterintuitive. In politics, I always
want to follow through on my threats and promises.”
    “With your peers, perhaps. But what about
your subordinates? Do you always, every time give them a word of
praise for a good job, or a reprimand? Or only now and again,
keeping them guessing?”
    “Point taken. So you are saying that this
strategy is more effective for those who are dependent.”
    “Precisely, sir. You have gone to the root of
it, forgive my imprecision, I only spoke of my own…discipline.” She
smiled again, obsequious.
    I know when I’m being played , Winthrop
thought, but it doesn’t matter. She’s the best at what she does.
Better to let her think I swallow her clumsy manipulations, as if
I’m one of her subjects. He shivered inside at that thought. That’s one thing I’ll never do, put