Hazards of Time Travel. Joyce Carol Oates

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СКАЧАТЬ said to be nuclear, chemical, and biological. In our senior year of high school we were required to take a course titled “Wars of Freedom”—these included long-ago wars like the Revolutionary War, the Spanish-American War, World War I, World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, and the more recent Afghanistan and Iraq wars—all of which our country had won—“decisively.” We were not required to learn the dates or causes of these wars, if there were actual causes, but battle-places and names of high-ranking generals, political leaders, and presidents; these were provided in columns to be memorized for exams. The question of Why? was never asked—and so I’d asked it in class, and in my valedictory address. It had not occurred to me that this was Treason-Speech, or that I was Questioning Authority.

      The harsh voices were taking a new approach: Was it one of my teachers who’d written the speech for me? One of my teachers who’d “influenced” me?

      The thought came to me—Mr. Mackay! I could blame him, he would be arrested …

      But I would never do such a thing, I thought. Even if the man hated me, and had me arrested for treason, I could not lie about him.

      AFTER TWO HOURS of interrogation it was decided that I was an “uncooperative subject.” In handcuffs I was taken by YD officers to another floor of Home Security which exuded the distressing air of a medical unit; there I was strapped down onto a movable platform and slid inside a cylindrical machine that made clanging and whirring noises close against my head; the cylinder was so small, the surface only an inch or so from my face, I had to shut my eyes tight to keep from panicking. The interrogators’ voices, sounding distorted and inhuman, were channeled into the machine. This was a BIM (Brain-Image Maker)—I’d only heard of these—that would determine if I was telling the truth, or lying.

       Did your father—or any adult—write your speech for you?

       Did your father—or any adult—influence your speech for you?

       Did your father—or any adult—infiltrate your mind with treasonous thoughts?

      Barely I could answer, through parched lips—No. No, no!

      Again and again these questions were repeated. No matter what answers I gave, the questions were repeated.

      Yet more insidious were variants of these questions.

       Your father Eric Strohl has just confessed to us, to “influencing” you—so you may as well confess, too. In what ways did he influence you?

      This had to be a trick, I thought. I stammered—In no ways. Not ever. Daddy did not.

      More harshly the voice continued.

       Your mother Madeleine Strohl has confessed to us, both she and your father “influenced” you. In what ways did they influence you?

      I was sobbing, protesting—They didn’t! They did not influence me …

      (Of course, this wasn’t true. How could any parents fail to “influence” their children? My parents had influenced me through my entire life—not so much in their speech as in their personalities. They were good, loving parents. They had taught Roddy and me: There is a soul within. There is “free will” within. If—without—the State is lacking a soul, and there is no “free will” that you can see. Trust the inner, not the outer. Trust the soul, not the State. But I would not betray my parents by repeating these defiant words.)

      At some point in the interrogation I must have passed out—for I was awakened by deafening noises, in a state of panic. Was this a form of torture? Noise-torture? Powerful enough to burst eardrums? To drive the subject insane? We’d all heard rumors of such torture-interrogations—though no one would speak openly about them. Shaken and excited Roddy would come home from his work at Media Dissemination to tell us about certain “experimental techniques” Homeland Security was developing, using laboratory primates—until Mom clamped her hands over her ears and asked him to please stop.

      The deafening noises stopped abruptly. The interrogation resumed.

      But it was soon decided then that I was too upset—my brain waves were too “agitated”—to accurately register truth or falsity, so I was removed from the cylindrical imaging machine, and an IV needle was jabbed into a vein in my arm, to inject me with a powerful “truth-serum” drug. And again the same several questions were asked, and I gave the same answers. Even in my exhausted and demoralized state I would not tell the interrogators what they wanted to hear: that my father, or maybe both my parents, had “influenced” me in my treasonous ways.

      Or any of my teachers. Or even Mr. Mackay, my enemy.

      I’d been taken out of the hateful BIM, and strapped to a chair. It was a thick squat “wired” chair—a kind of electric chair—that sent currents of shock through my body, painful as knife-stabs. Now I was crying, and lost control of my bladder.

      The interrogation continued. Essentially it was the same question, always the same question, with a variant now and then to throw me off stride.

       Who wrote your speech for you? Who “influenced” you? Who is your collaborator in Treason?

       It was your brother Roderick who reported you. As a Treason-Monger and a Questioner of Authority, you have been denounced by your brother.

      I began to cry harder. I had lost all hope. Of all the things the interrogators had told me, or wanted me to believe, it was only this—that Roddy had reported me—that seemed to me possible, and not so very surprising.

      I could remember how, squeezing my hand when he’d congratulated me about my good news, Roddy had smiled—his special smirking-smile just for me.

       Congratulations, Addie!

       “DISCIPLINARY MEASURE”

      Next morning I was taken from my cell and returned to Youth Interrogation.

      Half-carried from my cell, handcuffed and my ankles shackled, I was very very tired, very sick, scarcely conscious.

      It was my hope that my parents would be waiting for me—that they’d been summoned to come get me, and take me home. I would accept it that I’d be forbidden to attend graduation—forbidden even to graduate from high school; I would accept it that I might be sent to a Youth Rehabilitation camp, as it had been rumored the boys at Pennsboro High had been, who’d been arrested by Youth Disciplinary. All I wanted was to see my parents—to rush at them, and throw myself into their arms …

      Some months ago my parents had celebrated my seventeenth birthday with me. It had been a happy time!—but seemed now a lost, childish time. I had not felt like seventeen and now, desperate for my parents, I scarcely felt like a teenager at all.

      Of course my parents were nowhere near. Probably they did not know what had happened to me. And I did not dare ask about them.

      Instead I was being sternly informed: several Patriot Scholars had been arrested yesterday afternoon, simultaneous with my arrest, in a Youth Disciplinary “sweep.” After a season or more of relatively few such sweeps and seizes, YDDHS was “cracking СКАЧАТЬ