The Coiled Snake

Mark’s hand rested on his bloated intestines as he hobbled into the doctor’s office. He took the clipboard and gingerly sat. Nerves mixed with pain as he determined what to write. He rehearsed (in his mind, of course) his word choice and hand motions. He hoped his concerns were unwarranted. He’d likely be assigned to a room that hadn’t been retrofitted yet. He drove past three other hospitals to get to County General, which was one of the last still under renovation. 

He tried to ignore the professionally cheery woman’s voice from the telescreen: “Healthcare has never been so accessible, for all subjects of the Beloved. We’ll keep an eye on things to make sure nothing goes wrong. Hail to the Emperor!” A prerecorded group chanted back, “All hail his name!” A few people in the waiting room nervously or mindlessly joined. 

“Mark Guzman? Dr. Zelner will see you in room one.”

Mark followed the assistant to the back. His heart dropped into his distended stomach. The large numeral “1” cut in half as the new carbon fiber doors retracted into the wall. Mark entered, avoiding looking at the Cilia Macula. The Cilia’s single, dark red eye did not move, but Mark knew it was never off.  He thought about leaving, but that would look suspicious. Anyway, he doubted whether he’d be able to walk out of the room without collapsing from the pain.

Dr. Zelner walked in with the ease of someone too busy to mind government monitoring. It appeared he was already used to the new camera in his workplace. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Guzman? You chart here says ‘general upper body discomfort.’ You work a desk job, I see. That lifestyle can be killer on the neck and shoulders.”

Mark was glad he hedged on the form. Why would he read it out loud? The next few lines would be crucial. “Oh sure well, yes I’d say it’s more…thoracic in origin.”

“In the lungs? Like trouble breathing? Or more in the chest?”

“No, more of a lower thoracic, I’d say.” Mark stared at Dr. Guzman, but he was looking down at Mark’s paperwork.

“Lower thoracic. Can you be more specific? Point to where it hurts.” He looked up.

The dark grey glass eye in the wall remained inert but watchful. 

Now that he had the doctor’s gaze, he had a chance. With practiced precision, Mark grabbed his bottom rib, but let his pointer finger drag, ever so slightly. The effect, he hoped, was one that looked to the AI as “lower thorax,” but to a human as “my intestines feel like they’re going to explode.”  

Mark’s face looked calm. He tried to make it a communicative, frantic calm. He stared daggers into Dr. Zelner, whose back was to the eye.  

Clarity rose over Dr. Zelner’s face. “Trauma to the lower ribs. How long has it been since the last time you … didn’t have rib pain?”

“Almost ten days.” 

“Ten days! What are you eating, son? We need to clear you out … the pain, I mean. Clear out the pain.” He hastily added: “I ask about diet because it can have an effect on rib cartilage strength.”

It was a crucial misstep. The mediocre recovery was insufficient. The red iris of the Cilia lit up. It said nothing. 

Two men and a computer sat still for a long moment. 

Likely the Cilia’s AI had flagged for an operator, even as it continued to record. Everyone knew the AI wasn’t very good, but it was calibrated to be hypersensitive to potential Law Three violations. And since the edict abolishing doctor-patient confidentiality, conversations in hospitals had a low threshold for operator intervention. A human would not be so easily fooled. 

The pain was chipping away at Mark’s forbearance. If he could just explain before the operator came, he’d could leave without getting into it. It was a foolish thought. A quarter of the town was already at Central, working as operators or support. One would join them soon. But Mark was desperate.

“Please, doc. Can’t you just get me some fiber pills or something? Anything. I’m just so constip –”

“Identify.” Human but cold. Not a question.

Mark stood too fast. A lightning bolt of pain shot through him. Dr. Zelner turned to face the Cilia. 

“Dr. Robert Zelner, colon, Baltimore, colon, 385237.”

“Mark Guzman, colon, Rockville, colon, 225398.”

The bodiless voice ran the IDs. “Hail to the emperor.”

“All hail his name,” the two chorused. 

“What seems to be the problem today, Mr. Guzman?”

“Nothing too bad sir.” Mark tasted bile. “Just injured my rib here.”

“I see. Well AI flagged you boys as being at risk of violating Law Three. We’re not talking about something we shouldn’t, are we?”

“No sir.” Dr. Zelner took the lead naturally. Hopefully he could carry both of them through this. Mark’s stomach was all knives and fists. 

He channeled his pain into hatred of that voice. He could picture its owner, crew cut hair, seated in his cubicle at Central.  He would be wearing the empire’s colors: dark brown uniform with the yellow seal emblazoned on his left arm. The seal Mark saw countless times per day. The seal he pledged to in his recorded home.

The Eastern Brown Snake, coiled and resting on a bed of solid white dandelion.  

“Do you know the Three Laws?” 

“Of course, sir. We all know the Three Laws of His Awesomeness.” Zelner again.

“Recite.”

“We cannot recite them without violating law three, Sir.”

“Good. Very good.” A pause, likely for the operator to take notes, or consult a script or superior. The camera was, of course, one way. “You are both regular?”  

Straightening his back to address the operator was agony. Sweat was starting to form on his upper lip. The room sloshed around Mark like soup. “Yes. I, I recite the pledge each morning.”

Zelner responded. “Twice daily for me, Sir. Always pledge after my morning coffee, and again most afternoons.”

Another pause as the operator pulled recent footage confirming their claims. 

“Sing the anthem.”

Without questioning, the two grown men began to sing. Dr. Zelner sang with gusto. Mark sang like a man who had a bullet in his gut.

From the blessed hills of Carolina,

His name we will proudly bellow,

His snake flies forever, and all will bow,

Before the great brown and yellow.

Never again will we question his right,

His valor, his worth, his rule.

I dare not joke, He is highest in might,

And the world is his footstool.

Mark steeled himself for the big finale. His voice was barely audible.

For my Beloved I bow, I stoop,

For my Beloved Emperor Peup.

Mark vomited on the ground. It was suctioned down through micro-vents, and a fresh sanitizer washed away the residue. A citrus smell filled the air. He actually felt a little better. 

The red eye of the Cilia remained lit. Dr. Zelner remained at attention. Mark was doubled over, but still on his feet.

“As you were.” The light dimmed to AI mode, quietly monitoring.  

Mark collapsed back onto the patient table. Dr. Zelner rummaged around multiple drawers for a while, his back to the camera. He came up with a tongue depressor. “Sometimes rib pain can cause vomiting. Let me look at your throat.”

Dr. Zelner pivoted so his body was close to Mark’s, his back still to the camera. He barely touched his tongue with the wood, but squeezed his hand tightly. Mark felt a smooth object pass between them.

“I’d say you have a dislocated rib. Take some over the counter pain medicine and rest, it should relocate itself. Have a good day.” Dr. Zelner quickly left the room. 

Mark palmed the hard item as he hobbled to his feet. It felt like a rifle bullet. But there would be no need to hide that from the camera. No, Mark knew he was holding contraband. He didn’t glance down. He casually put his hands in his jacket pockets, then pulled them out a moment later empty. 

There was construction in the hall. New cameras were being installed, but the workers were out to lunch. Just below an uninstalled Cilia, Mark snuck a quick glance at what he, and the good doctor, risked so much for:

 Amalax Rectal Suppository.

*****

Mark sat doubled over in the driverless taxi, willing it to go faster. He did not raise his head toward The Effigy. He saw it daily, and didn’t feel in the mood to say a pledge to the statue, despite the car-Cilia recording him. 

The 11 year old Emperor towered over the city, 169 feet tall, per his exact specifications. 

Between the despot’s seated knees, graven in the marble, granite, and limestone, were the three laws of Emperor Fahrt Peup:

1.   Obey the Emperor.

2.   No poop jokes. Punishable by death.

3.   You know what? Nobody even talk about poop at all. Ever.