Bliss Read online

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 6652

  Hillsborough, NJ 08844

  http://www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Bliss

  Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Henry and Heidi Belleau

  Cover Art by Kanaxa, www.kanaxa.com

  Editor: Danielle Poiesz

  Layout: L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-138-0

  First edition

  August, 2014

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-139-7

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  They're always happy.

  Rory James has worked hard all his life to become a citizen of the idyllic city-state of Beulah. Like every other kid born in the neighboring country of Tophet, he’s heard the stories: No crime or pollution. A house and food for everyone. It’s perfect, and Rory is finally getting a piece of it.

  So is Tate Patterson. He’s from Tophet, too, but he’s not a legal immigrant; he snuck in as a thief. A city without crime seems like an easy score, until he crashes into Rory during a getaway and is arrested for assaulting a citizen. Instead of jail, Tate is enrolled in Beulah’s Rehabilitation through Restitution program. By living with and serving his victim for seven years, Tate will learn the human face of his crimes.

  If it seems too good to be true, that’s because it is. Tate is fitted with a behavior-modifying chip that leaves him unable to disobey orders—any orders, no matter how dehumanizing. Worse, the chip prevents him from telling Rory, the one man in all of Beulah who might care about him, the truth: in a country without prisons, Tate is locked inside his own mind.

  About Bliss

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Also by Lisa Henry

  Also by Heidi Belleau

  About Lisa Henry

  About Heidi Belleau

  Enjoy this Book?

  ory hadn’t expected his fresh start to begin with a concussion.

  After all, the city-state of Beulah had a reputation for being the safest in the world. More than that, it was a community. The kind of friendly, picket-fence place that used to exist only on syrupy old television programs. It was clean, energy efficient, and had a nearly negligible crime rate. It was Rory’s fresh start, away from the polluted, crime-ridden place he’d grown up in. Beulah didn’t even have graffiti or loitering teens, let alone the carjackings and rapes at knifepoint Rory had grown up with in Tophet. He had been lucky enough never to have been a victim of a violent crime at home, and he wasn’t sure what had shocked him the most when the man had hit him: the sudden excruciating pain as something crunched inside his nose, or the sheer ludicrous fact that he’d come all the way to crime-free Beulah and then gotten mugged.

  “Mr. James?”

  Or not mugged, since apparently he still had his ID.

  “Mr. James?” the voice repeated.

  Rory squinted into the torchlight. He raised a hand to try to bat it away, but only succeeded in smacking himself in the chin.

  “You’re in the hospital, Mr. James. Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

  “Like I should have stayed where I was.”

  The nurse circled his wrist with her fingers and drew his arm back down. “It’s terrible, what happened. Just terrible.”

  “What did happen?” he asked, relieved when she finally moved the torch and he could see again. Well, see everything other than what was behind the floating blobs the torch had left in his vision.

  “You were assaulted,” the nurse said, her tone becoming almost breathless. “It’s all over the news already.”

  “What?” Rory frowned and winced at the pain that shot through his forehead. “I’m newsworthy?”

  “It never happens,” the nurse told him. “I can’t even remember the last time we had an assault victim brought in.”

  “Really?” The nurse’s horror seemed genuine, like Beulah really was as safe as everyone said. Rory tried to take some comfort in that. Which was difficult, since his head hurt so much. And since he was the lucky exception to the rule.

  “The police are waiting to talk to you,” the nurse said, “but Mr. Lowell says they’re not to bother you until you’re ready.”

  “Mr. Lowell? He’s here?” Rory struggled to sit up, but the nurse put a hand on his shoulder and eased him gently back down. “Why would he . . .?”

  “It never happens,” the nurse repeated in a low voice.

  Rory had spoken to Jericho Lowell a few times by telephone when he’d applied for the job as the man’s executive assistant. Lowell was the chief justice, both a judicial and political appointment in Beulah. Rory knew Lowell’s position had helped secure his visa, so the nearest Rory could figure was that he was a cross between a judge and a mayor. Lowell had been impressed with his credentials—Rory had majored in political science and media relations at university and had the volunteer hours to prove he was no armchair expert—and the usually painstaking process of applying for residency in Beulah had been fast-tracked so that Rory could start work as soon as possible.

  He was looking forward to meeting Lowell, but not like this. He was a mess. His shirt was bloodstained, and he hated to think what his face looked like.

  “He came as soon as he heard,” the nurse said, a note of pride in her voice. “He’s a good man and, just between us, he’s very upset about what happened to you.”

  Rory was pretty upset by it himself, even though he was sketchy on the details. He tried to remember the man who’d hit him, but everything was a blur. He’d been standing next to his stack of luggage at the train station, trying to figure out the way to the taxis and fumbling in his pocket for his paperwork
at the same time. No point getting a taxi if he didn’t know the address . . . He’d also been wondering if his house would be as nice as it looked in the pictures he’d been sent, and his stomach had been growling a bit. Shower or meal first, when he got to his new home? Suddenly he’d become aware of a flash of nearby movement, the shape of a man running toward him, and then that blinding shock of pain . . . and then the hospital.

  The pain was bad enough, but he was more concerned that this might reflect badly on him in Lowell’s eyes somehow. After all, if there was no crime in Beulah, then maybe Rory had brought this on himself. Brought the violence with him from Tophet like it was a contagion.

  A worry that was very quickly vanquished when a man swept into the room. He was tall, broad, and in good shape for his age. He had a little extra weight around his middle, but he carried it well. His dark hair was graying at his temples and there were laugh lines around his eyes. He wasn’t laughing at the moment. His face was strained with concern.

  “Rory,” he said warmly, reaching down to shake his hand. “Jericho Lowell. Son, I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am that this happened. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

  Rory tried to smile. “There’s no need to apologize, Mr. Lowell. You weren’t the one who hit me.”

  Lowell smiled and gripped his hand tighter. “Well, you’d better get used to hearing it because a lot of people are going to tell you the same thing. You see, here in Beulah we all take responsibility for everything that goes on in our community. The crime committed against you rests on all our shoulders, not just those of the man who attacked you.”

  “The man who attacked me,” Rory interrupted, latching on to the topic. “Who was he? What did he want?”

  “An outsider,” Lowell said, grave. “Came here because he thought our lack of crime meant we must be easy targets, I’d wager. As to what he wanted, the police are talking to him now so you needn’t worry about that.”

  “Will there be a trial? Will I have to go on the witness stand? I don’t want to press charges if it’s going to cause trouble for you. I’d like to just move on from the whole thing and start my job.”

  “These things rarely go to trial,” Lowell said. “Not here. Here, men confess to their crime. It’s what’s right and just, after all.”

  Rory frowned. “But . . .”

  “The incident was captured on camera at the train station,” Lowell said. “I’ve seen the footage myself. Terrible stuff, and he’ll surely face consequences for what he’s done. As for you, you’ll be able to start your job, I assure you, but when it comes to ‘moving on’ . . .”

  Rory’s heart leaped. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t even name the strange horror and fear rising inside him.

  “Well, I suppose there’s a trade-off, you could say. Where you come from, you do the trial and then you ‘move on,’ as you say. Part ways with the criminal and that’s the end of it. But you likely never get justice, and he goes on to commit more crimes. Here, we require a long-term involvement on your part as the aggrieved.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I imagine you wouldn’t, growing up in Tophet.” Lowell patted him on the arm. “The whole system would be completely foreign to you, what with that meat grinder system the rest of the world runs on. Well, there are no prisons in Beulah, Rory, because our convicted felons are expected to repay their debt to society through labor and service. Rehabilitation through restitution, as the sign in the Hall of Justice says. Which means, in practical terms, that in order to repay his crime against you, and to know his victim as a man, your assailant will be required to fulfill a period of service to you. In fact—” Lowell’s eyes twinkled almost naughtily. “—I’d dare say that other than the injury, you’re almost lucky this happened to you. Now you’ll have your very own rezzy—that is, a person doing restitution labor—at your beck and call. Have him keep your house clean, cook you dinner, maintain your yard, run your errands, that sort of thing. Of course, it’s not just about him paying back the price of your injury or else he could just pay your medical bills and be done with it. A personal relationship between victim and perpetrator, that’s the ticket. Once he sees what a pleasant young man you are, his crime suddenly has a face.”

  Rory was stunned. He didn’t know what to object to first. “But I don’t want the man who hurt me in my life . . . or my house!”

  “He’ll be no danger to you at all,” Lowell said. “He’ll be assessed to make sure he’s not violent.”

  Rory was pretty damn sure he was violent, and he was the living proof.

  “It’s difficult, I know,” Lowell said. “You’re conditioned to believe that most offenders are recidivists because that’s what the prison system outside our borders makes them. You send a man to prison once and chances are he’ll go there again and again. Prisons and punishments create criminals; they don’t deter them. But you give him the chance to rehabilitate himself in a meaningful way and everyone wins. You do, he does, and so does society as a whole. I know it’s not an easy thing to get on board with, particularly when you’re still in pain, but the results speak for themselves.”

  Rory supposed they did, although it did nothing to ease the worry in him. The guy had hit him. For no reason. “I wouldn’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Ah, see, that’s why I hired you, Rory. You’re self-sufficient. Hardworking. It’s almost a relief to hear how uncomfortable you are with this proposition. But don’t worry. Ask for help when you need it, and if you don’t, the man should keep himself busy. He’ll be fully educated on his duties and responsibilities as a part of his plea deal.” Lowell smiled. “And I should add that this won’t cost you a thing. Everything he needs, from food to clothing to medical expenses, is covered by the government.”

  Rory wondered if this would make any more sense when his concussion healed. “I don’t feel very comfortable with this at all.”

  The understatement of the century.

  “You wait and see,” Lowell said, his tone warm. “In the meantime, maybe the fact that today’s lead news story is a man getting punched for no reason will indicate to you just how well the system works. We’re unused to violence here, Rory. It still shocks us, when I think the rest of the world has been unshockable for a very long time.” He smiled. “Now, I’ve got a lot of work to do today. I was hoping my new executive assistant would be starting tomorrow, but I see that he needs at least a few days off. You get yourself better, and come in to the office when you’re ready and not a minute before.”

  “Thank you,” Rory said.

  Lowell turned to the nurse. “Look after Mr. James for me. When he’s ready to leave, call my office and I’ll have a car sent to take him home.”

  “My luggage . . .”

  “Is waiting at the police station to be collected,” Lowell assured him. “I’ll have it taken to your house so you don’t need to worry about that.”

  Rory was relieved. Some good news, at last. “Thank you,” he said again.

  He closed his eyes.

  Maybe shit would start making sense once he’d gotten some sleep. Or maybe it would take another punch to the face.

  Tate could still feel the bruise on his spine where the cop with the bony knees had knelt on him. His shoulders hurt from having his arms wrenched back. He’d caught a glimpse of the poor bastard he’d hit, lying on the platform with blood pissing out of his nose, and then the cop had pushed Tate’s face down again and scraped it across the rough concrete.

  Six hours later it was still stinging, but Tate wasn’t complaining.

  He was in shock.

  “What do you mean I should take the plea bargain?” He felt the blood drain from his face.

  His lawyer, Cal Mitchell, leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I’m saying, Mr. Patterson, that I would strongly advise you not to go to trial.”

  It would have been smarter to look up the peculiarities of the Beulah legal system before arriving, but he hadn’t really t
hought it would come to this. He knew there were no prisons in Beulah, and that was good enough for him. It hadn’t occurred to him until he was talking to his government-appointed lawyer that maybe the locals had come up with a system of punishment altogether more cruel and unusual.

  “Why not?”

  Not that he was innocent in any way, shape, or form but surely he had a better chance with a jury.

  “If you go to trial and you lose,” Mitchell said, “you’ll get life servitude. No parole.”

  Tate swallowed. “What?”

  “That’s how things work here in Beulah. Just as a man is rewarded for taking responsibility for his crimes early on, he is penalized for tying up the system with lies.”

  Tate’s jaw dropped. Never in all his life, and in all his run-ins with the law, had he heard the right to trial referred to as tying up the system. What next? A perjury charge for pleading not guilty?

  “If you take the plea bargain,” Mitchell drawled, “you’ll be free in seven years.”

  Seven years. Tate’s vision swam. It was better than life though, wasn’t it?

  “But, um, what would my chances be at trial?” His chest hurt. Was he having a heart attack? Every breath stabbed him.

  “Take the plea bargain, Mr. Patterson.” Mitchell reached over the scratched surface of the table and patted Tate’s cold hand. “You’re young.”

  Tate tried another tactic. “But what if I’m innocent?”

  “You do realize the attack was recorded by CCTV, don’t you?” Mitchell raised his bushy eyebrows. “You’re not innocent.” He smiled slightly. “But then, nobody ever is. That’s why they always take the plea bargain.”

  God. Tate squeezed his eyes shut. Not happening. Not happening.

  Mitchell patted his hand again. “It’s not so bad. You’ll do your seven years, and then you’ll be a free man. All will be forgiven.”

  Tate’s guts twisted. He wanted to laugh, it was so absurd. So he’d hit some guy. How was that worth seven years? Or life? He clenched his jaw. Only in a self-proclaimed paradise like Beulah would that shit fly.

  He’d been in Beulah for two days. In and out, that was the plan. And it had been working too, right up until the out part. Five grand wasn’t a lot of money, but Beulah had been easy pickings. Shit, these people left their doors unlocked. Unlocked. They might as well have laid down the welcome mat. Tate had hit a few places and filled his bag up with cash and valuables, and then he’d headed for the station to catch a train to Tophet.