Scapegoat

1

The woman paced the far end of the cell while Dara watched. She was working herself up into a frenzy. This was perilous.

Take a deep breath. Find the quiet place she can’t touch. Dara still heard it in her father’s voice. Even after all this time. The woman began to shout. Dara tried to concentrate on the smooth draw of her own breath, the cool stir of the air around her, the words her father had told her. Just as every other day. She readied herself.

"— she thinking? That boy— that boy is trash. His whole family’s in the work corps, every last one. How he escaped, I’ll never know. He certainly doesn’t have the points to support a child. Or the will, most likely. She jabbed a shaking finger toward Dara. Not even the courage to come with her to tell us. Probably run off already. Off to screw someone else’s daughter. She raked a hand through already wild hair. We certainly don’t have the points to raise it. Nor enough to resolve it. All that’s left is ruin. For Wendy, for us, for that— parasite of his in her belly. How could she? The woman raised her hand. I didn’t raise a tramp," she shouted, spit spattering Dara’s nose. Dara’s head rocked back as the blow came. And then two more, each sharper than the last. Dara remained still. She didn’t raise her hand to rub the stinging skin of cheek, though the woman backed off a step. She knew better than to show any reaction to a new client. It was a big risk, causing the woman to become crueler or back off entirely. There was no telling which way it would drive her. Not yet.

I should have stopped for a Mercy allotment instead of coming here, the woman muttered.

That was a shock.

For your daughter? Or for you? asked Dara, unable to help herself. Things must be getting worse outside. She’d had clients come to vent about unplanned pregnancies before, but dying had never been openly discussed as a serious alternative.

The woman seemed to realize what she’d just said. I don’t know, she admitted. She rubbed an arm, stared down at the dark drain in the center of the floor. "I should have brought her here. Months ago. I warned her about him. Why didn’t she listen? She never listens. Should have shown her how you live. Shown her what her future was going to be."

Dara’s impatience got the better of her. She said something she should not have. What you see is not all there is to this place—

"Shut up, scapegoat. I don’t pay you to speak back to me. Another blow. A shove. Dara let her think she was stronger than she was and staggered backward, exaggerated the impact. It was easier. Safer. She’ll be here within the year, mark my words. Useless, empty-headed— hasn’t even finished her trade courses. She’ll have no way to earn points except to sell herself. Like you. The woman sneered. How long have you been here?" she asked.

Most of my life, answered Dara. She had a flash of the dark blue bus with its rattling windows, her father’s hand warm and squeezing hers, her legs chilled against the cold vinyl seat.

The woman nodded, her face sour and unsurprised. So she’ll never come out again. Never earn enough points.

I am not here because of a pregnancy, said Dara. Her point debt would likely be lower.

Don’t try to comfort me, snapped the woman, that isn’t what I want from you.

Dara nodded and clasped her hands together in front of her. Some of them were like this, no matter how she tried. It made it easier for them to hurt her when they stayed angry. She wondered if they understood that this was why she tried to help. If they ever realized it was as much for her own sake as theirs. Unlikely, she decided. They came for their sessions and raged. They left, still full of rage, and forgot her. Until the next session. Until the next goat.

"And what’s to be done with it then? When she’s holed up in here, who’s to take care of it? Me? I was careful. Years and years of planning and saving to have her. And only her. To give her the life I never had. And now— no. I’m not taking the little beast. It can go to the work corps with all the other unwanted. I’m not destroying our lives, everything we’ve struggled for to support her bastard."

Dara could only feel pity. For the baby. For the daughter. For the woman who had struck her. What she’d said was vile, but the terror and worry below it were too familiar to Dara for her not to understand it. She doubted their reactions would be the same, had she been in the woman’s place, but the distress was only too common.

The woman seemed to be calming slowly. The true weight of it settling upon her as the fury cooled. She began to realize what she’d been saying. Crossed her arms defensively, as if Dara had challenged her. Suppose when she comes here, you’ll be cruel to her. Because of how I treated you. You’ll probably hurt her, even when the clients don’t.

Dara shook her head. Whatever the woman’s reaction, she couldn’t let it stand. Couldn’t let her continue to think that a scapegoat would treat another the way the clients did. Your daughter would not come to this facility. She’d be sent far from here. Across the country. To make sure she never saw a client she recognized or had a past with. But if she did, I’d try to help her. Try to help her survive. Scapegoats give each other the kindness that nobody else will. And though I’ve never met a goat from another facility, though I will never speak with one, I know it would be the same wherever she went. We are not what you think.

The woman shook her head, sneering. You only say that because you think it will stop me from making full use of you. But I know the value of my points. I will not be swayed by your lies.

Yes. Your points give you the right to hate me. And the right to hurt me, for a time. Dara sighed. "I just— wanted to show you there was an alternative way. If you wanted it. So you wouldn’t have to spend the next months worrying for your daughter. At least— not about us. I wish her well. And if she must join us, if she finds no other way— I hope her clients are kind ones."

The woman hesitated. Just for an instant. But then the smack came anyway. Dara’s ears rang with the force of the blow, but the door of the cell swung open before it could be repeated. The woman scowled at the guard but didn’t buy more time. She left without acknowledging Dara at all.

It had been an easy session. Dara shifted her jaw, trying to pop her ears to get rid of the hum. It had been a good day, all in all.

2

It had been a good day, as days in the facility went. A few bruises on her arms from where she’d been thrown against the concrete wall in the prior night’s session and a little leftover ear ringing from that morning, but no other damage. The next one wasn’t scheduled for another week. No roll call scheduled for the afternoon. No impromptu sessions. No absolution alarm in weeks. The weak winter sun was even painting the gray walls a pallid gold for the first time in weeks. It had been a good day until Avern brought her the news.

New batch of goats this afternoon, he’d said. He plunked the food tray down next to Dara. You and I are on training rotation.

Great. Just what I needed today, another round of suicides, she said, pushing her own tray away.

Come on, you have fewer casualties than any of us.

Bullshit. Nothing I do is guaranteed to lead to exculpation. Same rules, same clients, same dead goats. The patch of sun looked harsher than it had a moment ago, highlighting the jagged cracks where the concrete had settled and broken over the years. How many years had it been since they appeared? How many goats had died since then? Dara had lost count.

Avern shrugged. I’m still here, aren’t I? He touched the jagged scar on the back of her hand. And you never follow the rules. That’s why we’re alive.

It wasn’t the comfort that he thought it was. She should have made him go. Long before he’d ground her Mercy allotment to dust. That would have been better. Now they were holding each other hostage instead. She tried to brush off the sudden irritation. It wasn’t worthy of him, of what they’d done for each other. I’m getting tired of scraping goats off the walls, she said instead. I think it’s getting worse out there. Maybe I’ll swap rotations this time.

Thought you’d say that. Roscoe’s on this round, too. He’s the senior unless you stay in this one. He’ll get first pick. Avern shoved aside the pasta on his tray, picking out the small tomatoes. Dara let loose a string of swears then fell silent for a moment, fuming.

I shouldn’t care, she snapped.

But you do.

Compassion’s for the rich.

And the goats, he reminded her. Your rule.

Stupid rule. I was wrong.

Hmm. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you were wrong. You’d be one friend and a wicked scar less.

She blew out an exasperated breath. Fine. But we’re pooling trainings. You pick who I say, right?

Always. You know me, I’ll never be exculpated anyway.

Dara held out her hand. You have the list?

Avern pulled it from his pocket, unfolding and smoothing it in front of her. She could smell the faint trace of Margaret’s hand lotion. All I could get was names this time. Margaret says they’re tightening data leaks in admin.

Dara elbowed him. It’s the new trophy, she said pointing to the raw red slice on his cheek. Told you not to rely on a pretty face for long.

Avern laughed. Oh, I have other talents, believe me.

Dara leaned against the wall of the lobby, watching the cotton candy pink bus disgorge its cargo of new recruits.

Young, observed Avern. Were we ever so young?

Younger. And the bus was dark blue when I came. And I was much younger, she thought. But he already knew that. It had been nighttime. Half-secret, the guards ashamed of what they were doing. Not anymore. Now they did it in broad day. It was only a bland looking cinder block building when she’d walked through those doors. No logo. No display windows or comfortable seating in the client lobby. Just the warden waiting for them, and her father, pushing her slightly behind him. As if he could shield her. As if he hadn’t needed to be shielded, too. Avern touched her arm.

All right, Dara? he asked.

She nodded. There are more of them than normal.

He frowned. So many absolutions last quarter. They needed replacements. Either that— or life outside is getting worse.

Roscoe hovered nearby, staring at the recruits intently. When isn’t it getting worse? These are mostly inherited debt, I’d guess, he said. A few convicts. Don’t expect much from this lot. They don’t look likely to survive to exculpation.

Then they’ll fit right in, said Avern.

For a month.

Dara stayed silent, watching them pulled along by their shackles into the building. Most of them were dazed, frightened. They stared around them at the large entry, its sharp edges and vast emptiness. At the looming goat skull with its tired motto beneath. Through our suffering, may you find peace. Dara wondered if the facilities were different from where they’d come from. She’d been so long out of the world that she could no longer tell whether the facility was strange or depressingly typical. All she was sure of, was that what was hidden neatly by the thick gray walls was far more dangerous than even the panicked new goats expected. A few of the recruits were impassive, pretending not to care, that scapegoating was just another stint in a long line of them. These were the ones in trouble, though they didn’t know it. But she wouldn’t go for them. Neither would Roscoe. They’d go to some mid-level goat, last a few years if they learned, and become a casualty if they didn’t. Maybe a few would survive to exculpation. Or take Roscoe’s place in using others for exculpatory points. It was of little concern to Dara. They weren’t in immediate danger. The others were, and Roscoe knew it. He’d push them, volunteer them for assignments too dangerous for them. Use their casualty to buy himself exculpation. He must have been close, Dara had seen three of his trainees on the mourning board in the last year.

The recruits shuffled past them. Half of them hadn’t even been given a uniform yet. Their clothing told her more than their faces. Some were even shoeless, their bare feet reddened by the snow they’d stumbled through outside the bus. Shabby, torn, patched and repatched. These were debtors, without question. The few wearing jumpsuits were the convicts and a few— a few looked like their downfall had come suddenly. Their shoes were still clean. Their clothes still whole, if a little wrinkled. Not ready.

A man near the end of the line stumbled and jerked the chain, one of the better dressed. The woman behind him careened for a second, off balance. She shoved him and he toppled into the man in front of him, a prisoner to judge by his jumpsuit. The three of them went down to the floor. A guard hollered. The woman swore and tried to smack the man who had tripped but her range of movement was limited. The stumbler cringed but the man in the jumpsuit he’d accidentally shoved over simply got up and awkwardly lifted the stumbler. You okay? asked the jumpsuit.

Yeah— sorry, answered the stumbler.

Get a move on! barked the guard.

Avern was already checking the list as they moved away. Which one you want? he murmured. The tripper or the saint in the prison jumpsuit?

Both. Maybe. We need to hear their stories, she whispered. That was low stakes. May mean nothing. But Roscoe will want the tripper.

Avern nodded. Well, interviews then?

The intake room was crowded and noisy, the new goats wandering between administrators and potential trainers, not realizing which were which or why they should care. Dara liked it that way. They were honest when they were confused. Soon, they’d realize it was as simple as looking for scars. For the way that other goats refused to meet another’s eyes or cringed at sudden movements. Things the administrators and guards would never do. But for now, they were ignorant. And scared enough to be truthful. She sat at the large table in the center, waiting for the din to fade and for people to organize themselves. She watched Avern prowl through the crowd, listening. His instincts were usually good. He had a knack for singling out the weakest, the least prepared, the ones destined to die first without aid. He was a good goat. One of her proudest achievements, though no one else might think so. Neither of them would ever be free. But he would survive, likely longer even than herself. And so would his kindness.

Roscoe slid into the seat next to hers. He stretched his lame leg with a groan, the flimsy plastic chair squeaking in protest. You want the woman, he said. The one who fought back.

Dara struggled to maintain a neutral expression. Even after all this time, he still didn’t understand her motivations. I don’t know who I want yet. Don’t know anything about them, she said.

He laughed and snapped the band of her eyepatch. You think this hides your reactions. I saw you lean forward when they fell.

"And which is it you want? Are we making trades?"

Obviously the one who caused it. You see the way he apologized? He’s a natural. Probably a rich kid, too. Or at least not from work corps. You see his haircut? Whatever he’s here for, it isn’t debt. He’ll make a glorious absolution in a few months and maybe put me over the threshold for exculpation.

She felt her lip curl in disgust before she could stop it. Congratulations, she said flatly.

You’d do well to follow my method, Dara. You’ve been here— what? Five years longer than me? Don’t know what a refugee point level goes for these days, but it can’t be as much as mine. You should have been exculpated already. I’ll write down my training program if you want, give it to you when I leave.

She didn’t tell him she could have exculpated several times. He wouldn’t understand why she hadn’t.

My training method is fine, she said quietly. Roscoe shrugged and fell silent as the new goats began to take their seats across the table. Avern sat on her other side. The one who tripped, she whispered carefully into his ear. No matter his story. He’s dead otherwise. He nodded.

They weren’t talking much. A few debtors scared out of their minds, the rest were warier. Ready to fight, he said.

Not a good sign, she answered. The administrators and guards filed out, leaving them to each other’s mercy.

What’s this? cried one of the new goats as they left. You’re leaving? We don’t know how—

Peace, rumbled Lucas. He wasn’t Dara’s, but she respected him. He’d been doing this almost a decade. She doubted he had many more points to accrue. One of these trainings, he wasn’t going to be here. She was surprised at the sadness the realization left. We’re going to meet each other now, that’s all, he continued. No one is going to hurt you here. That’s for others to do.

The new goat looked doubtful.

What’s your name? asked Lucas.

Hugh.

Why were you sent here?

The woman who had fallen spoke up. You don’t have to answer that. We don’t owe these people anything.

Lucas sighed. Look, this is how this works. The people outside, the administrators and guards, they don’t care what happens to us. The minute you were processed you stopped existing. They aren’t going to help you. They aren’t going to train you. They come in to give us session assignments and to drop off food. That’s it. Everything else— teaching you how to survive, keeping life fair and peaceful in the barracks, most of the medical treatment after you come back from a client— that’s all up to us. We’ve developed a system. The veteran goats will train you, but we need to find good matches. If you want to survive to exculpation, you are going to want our help. Like I said, no one here is going to hurt you. But that’s not true of the people outside this building. So. You don’t want the help? There’s the door. He waved his prosthetic. You can go find your bunk.

Nobody moved. Wise choice, said Lucas. Still, fair’s fair. We need to know why you’re here. But I’m sure you want to know why we’ve been here, too. I’ll let the others tell you in their own time. For myself, inherited debt. My dad lost his job during the crash of ‘20 and my mom couldn’t support us. We never recovered. He turned back to Hugh. So, want to tell me about your situation now? he asked.

The man blushed and rubbed his neck. "Criminal conviction. I— robbed my boss. Stupid. He cut our wages again— his family had more than they will ever be able to spend. Was my program that made him those millions. Thought he’d never notice. I only took enough to make rent. The judge said I might be able to get exculpation so my kids didn’t have to serve time after I died."

Lucas nodded. He pulled a sheet of paper with Hugh’s face on it from a pile and placed it face down in front of him. A signal to the others that Lucas would take him. It was a good match, Lucas was always very careful with new goats. Dara pulled her own copy of Hugh’s file out and placed it face up in front of herself. The others followed. Acceptance. Hugh would be trained by Lucas. He just didn’t know it yet.

How about you? Lucas asked the woman beside Hugh. It took another hour to go through the new goats. Same stories as always, thought Dara, debt, stealing food, stealing money, vice crime, addiction. On and on, always the same. Always showing how much worse the outside had become. The guards thought the designated scapegoats cut off from the world. No current media, no contact with their families, strict rules about what the administrators could speak to them about. They might not have bothered. The new goats constantly exposed the real conditions of the outside world. Lucas finally reached the stumbler. Dara could hear Roscoe’s seat squeak again as he leaned forward. Avern touched her knee beneath the table.

My name’s Von, he said. My friend— his sister’s sick. Cancer. They didn’t have the money for treatment.

"We need to know why you’re here, not why your friend’s in debt," said Lucas.

I’m here because I took on the debt. Couldn’t let him do it. He’s got kids.

She could have used the Mercy Allotment, said Roscoe.

Von turned toward him. But that’s— death. She’s not even thirty.

You sleeping with her? asked Roscoe. She got some kind of hold over you? Or you sleeping with your friend?

Von flushed. Dara could see the flare of irritation the question caused. He wasn’t as passive as he had appeared at first. It was a good sign, if somewhat dangerous.

Neither. They just needed help, he insisted.

So you— volunteered? asked Avern. "Do you understand what being a designated scapegoat means? It means you’re dead. To your friend and his sister and your parents and everyone out there. It means that whoever wants to use you to get out their aggressions can do so. However they want. This isn’t just some loud shouting match. You’re going to be beaten. You’re going to be stabbed and violated and tortured maybe. And cancer? That’s not cheap. Your exculpation points will never be adequate. You’ll be in here for life."

Von blanched but then he straightened, his jaw setting. Then I’ll be here for life. It was the right thing to do.

There was a collective groan from the veteran goats. Except for Roscoe. Very noble, he said. Dara could practically hear him drooling. I like that. I like that, a lot. He flipped Von’s paper face down in front of him. The others quickly obliged, leaving his face shining up around the table. Dara hesitated.

No, whispered Avern, smacking her knee under the table. No crusaders. You know better.

She toyed with the page and looked at him. Do I? No matter the story—

"No. Not that. He’ll be dead in a week, even with us. Don’t do it, Dara. It’s a waste. Let Roscoe have him and finally exculpate out so we don’t have to live with him anymore."

Sorry, she mouthed and flipped over the page. Avern kicked her under the table.

Really? asked Roscoe quietly. Why?

She turned so she could look at him with her good eye. He looked genuinely shocked. "Because it is noble. And I won’t let you soil it."

His expression hardened. You just don’t want me to be free.

Trust me, Roscoe, nobody wants you out of here more than I. But not him. Pick another.

And if I don’t?

A murmur from the other veterans, some shaking their heads. Von watched, bewildered and too far away to hear their words. What’s going on? he asked, What did I say?

I’m the senior here, whispered Dara. You want to challenge the system?

Maybe, he said.

This kid really worth the trouble? There’s not some other poor cannon fodder in this group for you to use?

He worth it to you?

She leaned toward him. I never told you this, but I have enough exculpatory points to match his level. I’ll buy his freedom before I let you have him.

Roscoe sneered. "You’re bluffing. This kid’s level’s going to be sky high. And you’ve been in here for years, there’s no way you’d give up exculpation for a stranger. An idiot crusader."

Try me.

He hesitated. Then he picked up Von’s case paper and flipped it right side up. Lucas stared for a second and then cleared his throat. Ready to move on then? he asked. Dara nodded. He turned to the woman who had fallen with Von. "You still