Docile Read online

  As he leaves, I suppress the urge to defend myself. To pull up progress charts and statistics, all my carefully crafted plans. If he isn’t going to listen, I’ll have to adjust. I can do this—I can play along, prove how serious I am about the company’s future and that I can work with the Board. I can use this opportunity to invest in a personal Docile whom I can inject with Formula 3.0. Use him to show everyone what I can do. What my legacy will be.

  * * *

  I’ve been waiting at the ODR for fifteen minutes when a white woman dressed like a flight attendant enters the lobby through a door marked “Employees Only.” She approaches me, then squeezes the handle of her white cane and retracts its laser length. “Dr. Bishop?”

  “Yes. Call me Alex,” I say, extending a hand.

  “I’m Charlene Williams, your Patron Liaison.” She shimmies the lanyard of her white cane into the crook of her elbow and we shake hands. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

  “No,” I lie because I’m polite. “Not at all.” I would’ve sat, but the plastic-covered chairs were not encouraging. Like most government entities, the Office of Debt Resolution is housed in a half-restored historic building. Though the façade is painted mint green and the decorative floral architecture restored, its insides are furnished with unraveling carpets, outdated filing systems, and the slight scent of mildew.

  Luckily, Bishop Laboratories has a bid on an exclusive contract with the ODR for renovations. Looking around, I see the need is more dire than anticipated. If corporate representatives and people of means don’t feel welcome at the ODR, fewer will become Patrons, and debt will spiral out of control, again, which is the opposite of our aims. But Charlene seems kind and eager to help and none of this is her fault, so I don’t mention it.

  “Your father’s asked me to work as an intermediary between the ODR and Bishop Labs, so I’ve compiled a list of Docile profiles based on the memo your assistant transmitted.” Charlene hands me a thick tablet with a rubbery case, squeezes the handle of her white cane, again, and leads me down the hall, the laser scanning side to side.

  “Thank you.” I scan the selected men’s photos and those statistics that preview alongside them. I tap the profiles of those I find physically unattractive and delete them from the queue, followed by those who never attended an accredited school and those without much debt. If I am going to do this, I’m going to do it right. I fake my enthusiasm for enough people that I lack the energy to do the same for a partner or Docile.

  “Have you made your selections?” Charlene opens the door to a room marked “Patron Lounge.”

  I glance at the few remaining profiles and feel disinterest stirring in me. “Is there a master database I can browse?”

  “Yes. Technically.” She takes the tablet from me. “Though I’ve been advised that you’re supposed to select from the prescreened profiles I showed you.”

  “I’d love to do exactly that, Charlene, but…” I search for the right words, not wanting her to tell my father—or the Board—that I was being difficult. I have to assume they tapped her, directly, to handle my case. “This Docile will be injected with the developing Formula 3.0, so I can’t pick just anyone. He needs to be in enough debt to accept a life term, smart enough so that I can subject him to periodic tests when he returns, sober, from family visitations, attractive enough to accompany me from political functions to Board meetings, and after-parties. If I’m going to accomplish the tasks set forth by my father and the other Board members, I must be allowed to select my subject.”

  I swallow hard, hoping she buys my speech. Why do I feel like I’m back in high school, bullshitting a paper? I’m better than this.

  Charlene pushes the tablet back into my hands. “I must not have given you the correct selections. My apologies.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

  It takes me longer than it should to understand. Charlene is ambitious. I’m the Bishop who’ll oversee the ODR’s renovations, should we win the contract with them, and I’ll be the one to appoint capable employees to help us. I accept the favor and file it away for later, as she intends.

  Charlene waits patiently while I scroll through the full database, narrowing down my options, then sorting by the most recent arrivals. I see him right at the top of my results—the one I want. I know because I find myself thinking, when I tap his profile, even if he’s a bit too skinny or attended an unaccredited school, that I can still work with that.

  His photo isn’t like the others’; it’s not staged. Strands of dark brown stick up from his freshly cut hair, like someone had just run their fingers through it. Probably a caseworker—not him. He stands in his clothes like he’s not wearing any, slightly hunched, arms crossed in front of his body. Covering himself as if his tee shirt and jeans are painted on his bare skin. Unlike the Board’s selections, he’s imperfect. His white skin is freckled and pink, if not sunburnt despite it being winter, and though a thin layer of gloss coats his lips, they’re cracked and dry.

  Not all Patrons can afford to pay off as much debt as he has, but I can afford all of his time. Long enough that his lips will heal and soften. The Board wants me to invest, and this one will be an investment on multiple levels. “I’ve made my selection, Charlene, thank you.” I hand her the tablet.

  She runs her fingers over the surface, then cocks her head. “Only one?”

  “Yes.” I anchor myself with the word, remind myself that I’m Alexander Bishop III and not only do I get what I want, but I know what I’m fucking doing. “Only one. Only Elisha.”

  * * *

  Elisha’s not wearing a shirt when I enter the small, windowless room. He tenses, still standing, as I take the chair opposite him. It’s different being in the room with him. I have to remind myself of my confidence. He’s no different from the Dociles I work with every day.

  Except I have to win this one’s favor.

  I take a deep breath, then beckon him over with the crook of my finger. “Put that shirt back on and have a seat.”

  He breathes out—possibly for the first time since I entered the room—and scrambles to comply. I do my best to examine his body without being too obvious. I’m either the hero offering him comfort and privacy, or the stranger making him feel uncomfortable, and wouldn’t he rather sign with the former?

  “My name’s Alex; what’s yours?” I ask, even though I already know.

  “Elisha,” he says.

  “Nice to meet you.” I hadn’t decided whether I was going to keep his name until I heard him say it. Most Patrons don’t, and at Bishop Labs we assign them numbers. On-meds don’t know the difference and it helps to distance Patrons from their Dociles’ pasts. It’s a business relationship. There are boundaries.

  “You too,” he says, probably a lie, and right now I need him to be honest if I’m going to make an informed decision. Debtors have been known to lie to fetch a higher price, but that’s not my only motivation. I want a feel for his voice, his demeanor—before the Dociline smooths it all down. Formula 2.0 only does so much; it makes people more willing, more at ease, more comfortable. It doesn’t invent skills or knowledge, and strong negative personality traits have been known to pierce through. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even bother talking to them; I’d just pick the prettiest one.

  “I’m going to ask you a few basic questions and I want you to answer honestly.”

  “O-okay.”

  “I work with Dociles, so there’s nothing you can say that’ll surprise me. I just want to make sure we’re a good match. Does that work for you?”

  He nods.

  “I’d appreciate if you’d answer me out loud.”

  “Yes—sorry.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, berating himself. “Yes.”

  “No big deal,” I say, hoping to put him back at ease. I pull up his profile on the tablet and review it.

  “You have no criminal record outside your debt history—complaints from creditors, a few police citations, including a home visit fourtee
n years ago—is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” His record is standard, cleaner than most debtors’. Plenty resort to theft and violence in their desperation. I will not have one of those types in my house, even on Dociline.

  “I see you attended an unaccredited school.” My only reservation about him. Schooling in the counties is often spotty at best. “Would you mind elaborating on your education?”

  Elisha rubs his left shoulder with his right hand—a guarded position. He remains that way while he explains. “We were only unaccredited because we couldn’t afford to pay state-certified teachers, but I learned the basics: reading, writing, math, local history.”

  I wouldn’t describe those as “the basics,” but it’s better than nothing.

  “How long did you attend?”

  “I completed all the compulsory grades, first through eighth. After that, I attended night classes. Had to work during the day.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Whatever was asked of me.” He shrugs. “Clearing weeds, cutting wood, tending the animals, mending clothes or houses. In my free time, I tutored those who couldn’t make it out to the schoolhouse.”

  “And you’re healthy?” People with chronic illnesses have been known to scam the system, selling themselves for the required medical care. Sometimes a Docile’s healthcare costs the Patron more than their debt. I’m not looking for that much of an investment.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Do you have domestic experience? Cooking, cleaning, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes. I managed most of the household while my—” He stops and bites his bottom lip, unsure if he’s supposed to continue.

  “While?” I can’t make him tell me anything about his life, but now I want to know.

  Elisha sits up straighter. “While my mom was serving her term. For ten years.”

  I force myself to say, “Good,” rather than probe. This is a business relationship, I remind myself. His history won’t matter once he’s on Dociline. “I only have a few more questions; then you can ask me yours.”

  “Okay.” He tucks his hands under his legs and leans forward, opening himself up to me. For the first time he appears interested.

  “Are you attracted to any specific gender?” The more the better, to be honest. Not only do I plan to fuck him, but it’s expected I’ll share him with others at social events. Already I’m not looking forward to it.

  “Men,” he says, tentatively.

  Too tentatively. I wait while he reconsiders.

  “Men?” It’s almost a question. He looks up, lips moving slightly, as if he’s counting to himself. “I notice men.”

  “Sounds like you don’t have any sexual experience.”

  He shakes his head and tucks a stray hair behind his ear before remembering he’s supposed to answer me out loud. “No. I do experience sexual attraction; I’ve just never had a chance to…”

  Elisha blushes as he forces his eyes to meet mine, and suddenly I’m imagining him shirtless, in my room, on my bed. I wonder what he looks like naked, what all those freckles and muscles would feel like against my skin.

  I hold his gaze. “Had a chance to what?”

  “Have sex.”

  I let the word “sex” hang in the air.

  “Are you attracted to me?” I ask, finally. A dangerous question. If he says no, I’m not sure I’ll be able to proceed, and then I’ll have to resort to one of the Board’s picks. For the first time during this interview, he holds the power.

  After a few seconds of consideration, he says, “I find you attractive.”

  “Good.” I let my breath out slowly to hide my relief.

  I debate asking what he thinks of me as a person, but it’s clear he’s torn and I don’t want to tip the scales out of my favor. Elisha has more debt, less education, and less experience than the pre-approved Dociles my assistant sent over. But under his calluses, I see an opportunity to show my father, and the Board, what I can do. That I’m capable of handling my personal and work life. That with enough determination, I can turn a desperate debtor into the perfect Docile. With Formula 3.0, Elisha will become my legacy.

  4

  ELISHA

  “Elisha!” Carol waves me into her cramped office. A mixture of papers and tablets crowd the desk and filing cabinets. “Sit down. Glad you found me in this maze of a building. I have good news.”

  I can’t return her smile, because any good news also means the end of my freedom. A small piece of me had hoped to drag out the process, unwind my nerves.

  “Each Patron who interviewed you made an offer, though I have a feeling you’ll only be interested in one.” She hands me a tablet—the nicest one I’ve ever held.

  I grip the sides tightly, afraid to drop something I can’t afford to replace. “What do I press?”

  “Oh, right there, hon.” She taps a spot on the screen and it lights up. “Move your finger up and the page will follow.”

  I forget how to read for a moment. The letters are jumbled squiggles. What am I looking for? A name, an amount, a term length.

  I see it underlined: William Barth, three million dollars, thirty years. I’ll be fifty-one when I’m free.

  “Thirty years is an extremely generous offer for three million.”

  I tap Barth’s picture and it fills the screen. He’s the one who asked about manual labor; I recognize him now that I’m less nervous, now that I can put a name with a face. The work doesn’t scare me—I do enough, already—but, staring at his name, now, I realize I’ve heard it before, from folks at the farmer’s market. How he’ll buy anyone’s debt—quantity over quality. Then it doesn’t matter if a few can’t keep up. If they get injured or die.

  At least my family would get to keep the money. Patrons are supposed to take care of your health—Second Right. They break it, they buy it.

  “By law, you’re required to view all offers before making a decision,” Carol says. “And you’re allowed to wait if none of these appeal to you. But I don’t know if another like Barth’s will come around again. He doesn’t usually bid so high.”

  “Where are the others?” I set the tablet down and Carol taps to a window with Patron photos, each representing a different offer.

  My fingers slip across the glass surface, slick with sweat. There he is. Alex—I read his last name aloud—“‘Bishop.’”

  “Hm?” Carol cranes her neck to look as I touch his picture.

  I skim his offer the second it appears. Dr. Alexander Bishop III, three million dollars, life term. My whole life. I’d die in this stranger’s house, without my family.

  My fingers brush the screen and another underline catches my eye. “‘Docile’s immediate family will receive a monthly stipend of one thousand dollars for the duration of his life, revocable at the Patron’s discretion.’ Is that normal?” I ask Carol.

  Her face twists in discomfort. “No. And, paired with a life term, I admit, I’m suspicious of his intentions.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Elisha, do you know who he is?”

  “A trillionaire?”

  “Not just any trillionaire. His family owns Bishop Laboratories.” When I don’t react, Carol leans across the desk. “They make Dociline.”

  “Oh.” Oh.

  And I’m going to say no. Can I say no to him? Will I, when it comes down to it? If I can, this might be my best offer. I shudder remembering the woman who wanted to buy me as a pet for her daughter.

  I take the tablet and read the entire contract again. With a thousand dollars a month, my sister might be able to afford the University of Maryland if they saved properly and she took a job. It might incur some extra debt, but it would also get her a real job in Baltimore City, where she might make enough to pay it off.

  “I get two visits home per year,” I say. I’ve already memorized every Docile-related law and regulation; I know the answer’s yes.

  “Yes,” Carol says anyway, “but ke
ep in mind this is a life term. With Barth’s offer you’ll be free by your fifties. You can retire with your family.”

  “On what, my nonexistent savings?”

  Carol sits back; hurt creases her face.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “I’ve had worse. People aren’t at their best once they’ve registered with the ODR, and I can’t blame them.”

  We both look at the contract in my hands. “If I live until I’m eighty that’s about sixty years of stipend. With twelve months in a year it comes out to … seven hundred twenty thousand dollars.” Alex Bishop is exactly what I came looking for: a trillionaire who’ll use me for sex rather than dangerous labor, and is willing to pay extra for the privilege. “How do I accept his offer?”

  * * *

  Carol waits with me on the sidewalk. The others who’ve signed contracts boarded the bus for delivery hours ago, but Alex left instructions that he would send a private car.

  “Stop playing with it.” She swats my arm away from my back before I can scratch between my shoulder blades again. That’s where they implanted the ID and GPS microchip. People do the same thing to dogs.

  “I can’t stop thinking about it,” I confess.

  “You will shortly, trust me.” She wrangles my hand into hers in order to hold me still.

  I squeeze back. People in brightly colored suits brush past us, not giving me a second look over their pastel ties and floral scarves. If they stand still too long beside the painted ODR, they clash with it. None of them know where I’m going or what’s just happened to me. It hasn’t even hit me, yet.

  When a black car pulls up, Carol tightens her grip. It parks and an older white man exits the driver’s seat. “I’ve never ridden in a car before,” I say, because anything else I’d express would be pure terror.