Love in Dangerous Waters.

In 4 parts, by RachaelJane. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.

 Serf Jasmine seeks her freedom by entering the Argonaut.Chapter 1: The next step

The domed city of Argon is a marvel of engineering created in the dying days of the old regimes. Uninterrupted wars; the plundering of rapidly diminishing resources; and extreme weather events, had reduced most of the planet's population to little more than scavengers and refugees, dependent on the largess of the privileged few who controlled most of the Earth's remaining wealth and resources. The ideas of democracy and freedom had been swept away by the unstoppable return of the medieval concept of feudalism. The wealthy elite became the new aristocracy, while the bulk of the population was reduced to modern day serfs; indentured to their local overlord from cradle to grave.

History doesn't record exactly when the planet's ruling elites decided to create huge domed cities like Argon. Possibly the domed cities simply evolved as the ravages of war, and the uncontrollable elements, destroyed wide swathes of land. Floods and wild fires herded those with the wealth and ability to move into defensible towns and cities. Those who lacked the means were abandoned to their fate. Hundreds of millions died. Taxes were directed solely towards protecting the new centers of population. Many old and famous towns and cities were left to the elements, or to the marauding armies who lived off the misery of others. Within a few decades, there was little trace of the old world. Even the rogue armies finally disbanded when it became too difficult to find food and supplies to service their rapacious needs.

We're told that Argon is typical of the domed cities scattered around what is left of the inhabited world. Argon's large central city houses about eighty thousand people. Access to the domed part of the city is strictly controlled, and no serf is allowed into the central city without a special permit. To live inside the domed center requires wealth far beyond most people's imagination. No city citizen ever dirties their hands doing menial tasks. Consequently, in order to service the needs of the new elite, nearly two hundred thousand people commute daily into the city from one of sixteen outer settlements. Most of the commuters are serfs who have purchased short term freedom from their settlement overlord. The commuting workforce provide all the essential services that keep the city operating from day to day. Laborers and house servants are in great demand, along with those who provide personal services ranging from hairdressing to sexual services.

Despite the strict rules that control our lives, we are generally a happy population, or so I am lead to believe. Our rulers constantly remind us that these days we have a steady supply of food, and that most settlements now boast their own medical center, albeit with unqualified medics and very few drugs or medicines. New laws limiting a serf's work hours to only sixty hours a week mean that we have more leisure time. None of this existed until as recently as eight years ago. I can remember the days when my family went without meals, and my parents' reliance on dubious folklore remedies for dealing with ailments.

The strictures of modern day serfdom prohibit those living in the settlements from obtaining jobs in the central city without compensation for 'loss of future labor' being paid to their local overlord. For young people, where 'future labor' may represent forty or more years of service, the cost of compensation for a lifetime of freedom is well beyond the means of a young serf. Many must opt for purchasing their freedom for a limited time in the rarely-achieved hope of earning enough in the city to purchase an extension of time.

Those seeking permanent freedom usually take an indirect route towards achieving their goal. One such route is to undergo one of the quarterly assessments and authentication conducted by the Bureau of Ancillary Services. The Bureau's authentication process ensures that the never-ending demands for young workers in the city are satisfied. Success in the Argonaut, as the assessment and authentication process is commonly called, means freedom from serfdom; although that freedom invariably comes at the price of a large debt to be repaid. The Bureau will lend the successful serf the amount of compensation due to the serf's overlord, enabling a city work permit to be issued. However, even attending one of the quarterly assessments can be a costly affair. Firstly the serf must compensate his or her overlord for the three days absence from work, and secondly the serf is required to cover the cost of accommodation for the duration of assessment.

Argon's settlements are named after American presidents and European royal houses, reflecting the origins of most of the city's population. Governance of Argon, and hence its settlements, is by a military junta who appoint all the administration and military officers, including each settlement's leader. The junta also creates and enforces the laws which control our daily life. Anybody who voices dissent against the junta's reign is rapidly and severely punished without any right to a trial. Even those living in the city are careful about what they say. Rumors says that the worst offenders are executed, but none of our heavily censored news-feeds make reference to anyone suffering that fate. Minor offences usually result in longer work hours, or the loss of access to the few recreational facilities.

But enough about my world, it is time to tell you of my place in it. My name is Jasmine, and Buchanan settlement has been my home for all of my nineteen years. I've worked in one of the local recycling plants ever since I left school at eight years old. For a decade I have had a dream of buying my freedom so that I can work inside Argon's central city. Now I have a chance. I am one of those who will be assessed at the next Argonaut, thanks to an anonymous benefactor who has sponsored my application.

For better or worse, I have chosen my next step. My arrival at the old boarding school that houses the Bureau of Ancillary Services assessment center is the gateway to my future.

Chapter 2: The lacy nightie.

It's nearly midnight and I can't get to sleep. The first session of the Argonaut starts in nine hours. I still can't get over my sponsor's generous offer that has allowed me to attend. I realize that the very late arrival of the sponsor's offer confirms that I'm a last minute substitute. Given my father's blemished political record, I suspect my anonymous sponsor is scraping the bottom of the barrel in choosing me. But he or she did, and that has enabled me to be here at the old boarding school which serves as the headquarters of the Bureau of Ancillary Services. The original school closed decades ago when Argon's junta decided to close the last remaining links with the decaying towns and cities beyond the borders of Argon's self-proclaimed territory, effectively isolating us from the world. There was no need for schools with boarding facilities after that.

Every three months, Argon's Bureau of Ancillary Services accepts the applications of exactly fifty settlement adults between the ages of eighteen and twenty-seven. Successful applicants become contestants in the Argonaut, which consists of a series of interviews and tests supervised by an assessment panel. Some of the interviews are broadcast on the news-feeds throughout Argon and its settlements, with the intention of attracting future employers for the hopeful contestants should they secure a city work permit. The number of permits available each quarter is a closely guarded secret. Consequently, passing all the tests doesn't automatically result in a contestant being granted a permit. And obtaining a permit doesn't guarantee a good job. Not all city jobs are better than those in the settlements, but that doesn't stop the competitiveness for the permits. That competitiveness often includes a range of sabotage and underhand tricks targeting the weaker contestants.

These days the Argonaut doesn't automatically favor the handful of contestants who have served a ten-year term in the military, and who are now into their twenties. The leaders of some settlements still prefer the old tradition of favoring the applications of those who have served in the military. Former soldiers are often trained to do well in the Argonaut's tests. A contestant's success can give a boost to their own settlement's ranking in the eyes of the junta; a ranking that determines the priority given to the funding of a settlement's civic improvements.

It's no secret which contestants were formerly in the military. Knowledge of their status is intended to intimidate the other contestants. Their names and reputations are etched in every other contestant's mind; Paulo and Chloe from Eisenhower, Heidi from Grant, and Mansel from Bourbon. All contestants have the support of volunteer helpers who do everything from offering advice to helping solve minor problems. These helpers are an eclectic selection of oddballs and do-gooders from among the city's bored residents. Not all of them are model Argon citizens, and three of the female contestants have already complained about being groped by one of the helpers.

I give up trying to sleep, and I decide to take a walk around the old school building housing the fifty contestants for the current Argonaut. I slip my short dressing gown over my even shorter nightie. Normally I sleep naked, but I had the sense to borrow a nightie and gown from my twelve-year-old sister. I'm not a blushing maiden, but sleeping naked in a mixed gender dormitory is asking for trouble.

The eight dormitories are designed to accommodate six people in each. Seven are single-sex dormitories. However, the late applicants, like me, must put up with eight of us crammed into the room, which now houses three male and five female contestants. Everywhere is quiet as I head towards the communal dining area. Everyone else must have had no trouble in falling asleep. In Harper's case that probably has more to do with the quantity of alcohol he consumed during the evening meal, since he's asleep on the dining room floor. Suddenly a movement catches my eye. I duck behind a door in case it is Patrick. He also comes from Buchanan, and he's the closest person I have to a friend in this place. I'm not certain I want him seeing me dressed like this. I watch the figure at the other end of the dormitory for a few moments before realizing it is one of the robots that clean up after us. They try to be invisible, hovering just out of sight unless one is needed to clean up