Chapter Three of Helena, a novel in progress. This work of fiction examines Christian nationalism, political power, and the corruption of religious language.
Helena awoke before the wall illuminated.
For several seconds, she lay motionless beneath the thin blanket, conscious only of the darkness and the soft rhythm of her breathing. Then she remembered the Affirmation.
She had selected I AFFIRM. She was certain of that.
The acknowledgment had appeared, the wall had returned to its nighttime gray, and her wristband had recorded another year of faithful citizenship. Nothing had happened. No alarm had sounded. No officers had arrived.
Still, she remembered the hesitation.
Her wristband vibrated.
The wall brightened to a muted white, and the morning notice appeared.
DAILY STATUS REVIEW COMPLETE.
NO CORRECTIVE ACTION REQUIRED.
Helena read the second line twice.
She had never seen it before.
Most mornings, the wall displayed her schedule, the weather, and whatever civic observance had been designated for the day. It did not ordinarily reassure her that corrective action was unnecessary.
Perhaps the message was new. The Office of Civic Harmony changed its language frequently, usually without explanation. What had once been called surveillance was now protective observation. Interrogations had become pastoral conversations. Arrests were temporary withdrawals from civic participation.
Nothing had changed except the words.
The notice disappeared.
REPORT TO ASSIGNED EMPLOYMENT AT 07:45.
Helena dressed and stepped outside.
The morning procession had already begun. Citizens emerged from the identical buildings and joined the prescribed walking routes, each maintaining the pace indicated by the pale lines projected through their glasses. Helena fell into position between an elderly man and a woman carrying a small child.
The child was asleep against the woman’s shoulder. One tiny hand rested beside the mother’s compliance band.
Women’s bands collected more information than men’s.
The government described this as a medical necessity. Female biology was more complex, the public notices explained, and therefore required more comprehensive protection. The bands monitored temperature, pulse, hormone patterns, sleep, stress, physical location, medication, and reproductive status. Women were also required to confirm the beginning and end of each menstrual period. The data allowed the Republic to detect disease, safeguard unborn children, and intervene when a woman’s health might be at risk.
That was the official explanation.
The woman shifted the child to her other shoulder. Her band flashed amber, then returned to green.
Helena looked away.
At the entrance to the employment center, the scanner took longer than usual to recognize her. A white circle rotated around her identification image.
REMAIN STILL.
Helena obeyed.
The circle completed one revolution, then another.
Behind her, the line began to lengthen. No one complained. No one dared appear impatient with a verification procedure.
At last, the gates opened.
IDENTITY CONFIRMED.
PROCEED.
Helena entered without looking back.
Her workstation illuminated as she approached, presenting the same sequence of assignments she had completed the day before and would probably complete again tomorrow. She sat down, placed her hands within the marked area, and waited for the system to authorize her first task.
Something was different.
The station to her left remained dark.
Mara Venn had worked beside Helena for almost three years. They rarely spoke except during the allotted midday break, and even then their conversations were limited to food, weather, approved programs, and the minor discomforts of work. Friendship was not forbidden, but unregistered intimacy of any kind could create unhealthy loyalties. Citizens were encouraged to maintain cordial relations with everyone and confidential relations with no one.
Even so, Helena knew small things about Mara.
She knew that Mara disliked the nutrient cubes with the artificial cinnamon flavor. She knew that Mara’s husband repaired ventilation systems in the eastern administrative district. She knew that Mara had once wanted children but had stopped mentioning the subject after her second reproductive review.
Mara had never been late.
At 07:45, a tone sounded. Every occupied station changed from gray to blue.
Mara’s remained dark.
Helena kept her eyes on her own screen.
The supervisor crossed the room at 08:03. He stopped at the empty station, placed his hand on its surface, and waited. The screen awakened beneath his palm.
For an instant, Helena saw Mara’s identification photograph.
Then it vanished.
STATION UNASSIGNED.
The supervisor returned to his desk.
At midday, Helena carried her meal to one of the sterile tables. She chose a seat near the wall and opened the package containing her nutrient allotment. Across the room, people ate quietly beneath a projected verse:
“Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers.”
Romans 13:1 KJV
A woman named Livia sat across from her.
“She has been reassigned,” Livia said.
Helena did not ask whom she meant.
“That is what the supervisor said?”
“That is what the station says.”
Helena lifted the water packet to her mouth. “Then she has been reassigned.”
Livia looked down at her untouched meal.
“She missed her review.”
The room seemed to grow quieter, though no one around them had stopped speaking.
Helena lowered her voice. “What review?”
Livia glanced toward the nearest ceiling sensor.
“Reproductive.”
Helena broke a piece from the nutrient cube but did not eat it.
Every woman submitted a monthly reproductive declaration. The declaration was described as voluntary preventive care, although failure to complete it suspended employment and travel authorization. The band supplied most of the answers automatically. The woman merely affirmed that the data were correct.
“Perhaps she was ill,” Helena said.
“Perhaps.”
“Or the system made an error.”
Livia raised her eyes.
Helena immediately regretted the words.
Errors occurred. Everyone knew that. But it was unwise to suggest that the system could make them.
Livia leaned forward slightly. “Her cycle was late.”
“How would you know?”
“She told me.”
The admission hung between them. Mara should not have shared that information, and Livia should not have repeated it.
Helena looked at her meal.
“A late cycle proves nothing.”
“No.”
“Did the review confirm a pregnancy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then no one knows anything.”
“The system knows.”
Livia said it without emphasis, almost as if reciting a response learned in childhood.
The system knew where every citizen slept. It knew when two people occupied the same room. It compared heart rate, respiration, movement, skin temperature, and the distance between their bands. Officially, the government used this information to confirm marital fidelity and protect citizens from sexual exploitation.
In practice, it meant that the Republic claimed to know whenever two people had engaged in sexual activity.
Married couples were not punished for the act itself. Their intimacy was lawful, provided the marriage was registered and neither participant was subject to a medical restriction. But the resulting data remained in the permanent civic record. If a pregnancy began—or appeared to begin—and subsequently ended, every recorded encounter became evidence.
“Mara is married,” Helena whispered.
Livia’s expression did not change. “Her husband has been working in the northern district for six weeks.”
Helena felt suddenly cold.
“Then she wasn’t pregnant.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t.”
“Or the dates are wrong.”
“Perhaps.”
“Or she lost the child naturally.”
Livia looked toward the verse projected on the wall.
“That is what Mara said.”
Helena stared at her.
“You spoke to her?”
“Yesterday morning. She received the summons during first work period.”
“What did it say?”
“Maternal Protection requested her presence for clarification. She said it was routine.”
Maternal Protection.
The office’s announcements showed smiling women cradling healthy infants. Its waiting rooms were decorated in pale blue and gold. Its officers wore no visible weapons.
Helena had never known anyone who returned from an unscheduled clarification.
“Did she say anything else?”
“She said there had never been a child.”
A tone sounded, warning that the midday interval would end in two minutes.
Livia began wrapping her uneaten nutrient cube.
“What do they think happened?” Helena asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You must have heard something.”
Livia’s band pulsed yellow.
Both women stopped speaking.
The light remained for three seconds, then faded.
Livia stood. “We should return to our stations.”
Helena caught her wrist before she could leave.
It was a foolish, instinctive gesture. Their bands touched.
Both devices vibrated.
Helena released her immediately.
Livia’s face had gone pale.
“They say her hormone readings changed too quickly,” she whispered. “They say the pattern is consistent with a terminated pregnancy.”
“But that could mean a miscarriage.”
“It could.”
“Did she seek medical help?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she—”
“Don’t.”
Livia looked directly at her.
“Whatever happened, they will decide that she caused it. If she ended a pregnancy, she is a murderer. If she lost it through negligence, she endangered a child. If the pregnancy resulted from an unlawful relationship, she tempted the man into sin. If the data are wrong, she failed to maintain her band properly.”
“And if she was assaulted?”
Livia’s mouth tightened.
“Then they will ask why she placed him in temptation.”
The return-to-work tone sounded.
Livia walked away.
Helena remained seated until her wristband tightened, reminding her that movement was required.
During the afternoon, Mara’s station was removed.
Two maintenance workers arrived with a narrow cart. They disconnected the station, covered it with gray fabric, and rolled it from the room. No announcement was made. No replacement was brought.
By the final work period, the space beside Helena looked as though no one had ever occupied it.
She tried to concentrate on her assignments, but errors began appearing on her screen.
SEQUENCE INCORRECT.
REVIEW INSTRUCTIONS.
ATTENTION VARIANCE DETECTED.
She slowed her breathing and began the sequence again.
On the other side of the room, Livia worked with her eyes fixed on her screen. Neither woman looked toward the empty space.
At 17:00, the dismissal tone sounded.
Helena’s workstation did not release her.
The others rose and filed toward the exit. Livia passed without looking at her. Within minutes, Helena was alone except for the supervisor, who remained at his desk.
She placed her hands flat within the marked area.
“Excuse me.”
The supervisor did not respond.
“My station has not released me.”
“I am aware.”
“Have I failed to complete an assignment?”
“No.”
“Then may I leave?”
“When you are released.”
Helena waited.
At 17:06, the screen went black.
For a moment, she saw her reflection: colorless face, tired eyes, compliance band glowing steadily at her wrist.
Then white letters appeared.
CITIZEN HELENA—IDENTITY CONFIRMED.
ANOMALOUS CIVIC RESPONSE RECORDED.
Her mouth became dry.
The hesitation.
They had measured it. Of course they had measured it.
Before she could read further, the first message disappeared.
A second took its place.
ASSOCIATION REVIEW INITIATED.
She thought of Mara’s empty station. She thought of Livia’s warning and the brief contact between their bands. She thought of every lunch she had eaten beside Mara, every harmless exchange the system might have preserved.
A final message appeared.
YOUR PRESENCE HAS BEEN REQUESTED BY THE OFFICE OF PASTORAL COMPLIANCE.
REPORT TOMORROW AT 07:00.
ATTENDANCE IS MANDATORY.
Previous: The Affirmation — Chapter Two
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