Then I wondered to myself about how rarely Susan had written me while I was on tour. But then, I didn't have much time to read anyway. After the first year, she must have learned to live without much communication. Still, the slight grief at not hearing from her, and being home now without her being here, and the exhaustion -- all the things I know I couldn't have helped -- stung me more than I could imagine.

I guess I'd fallen asleep, because there I was -- the same place, the same position -- only it was dark.

I felt my way to the kitchen and turned on the light over the sink. Immediately, the counter reflected a bright streak from the halogen bulb above. And right on top of it I noticed an envelope. I recognized the type: Confidential, military, high-command.

The paper of the envelope felt unusually hard in my hands -- hands that were already used to such hardness. I felt for the flap and ripped the letter open with my thumb.

Inside was a brief official message. "Your wife has been displaced," it said, "for her own safety. At your nearest convenience report to..." The rest came to me like a rote mathematical exercise. I knew the place, like I knew my own home, even better. I'll find it instinctively, faster than the kitchen light-switch.

***

The next morning I found myself standing in front of the dull gray facade, at the ordinary steel door, at the rectangular patches of grass. It was like a small school. I don't know how long I stood there.

A memory of Susan in bed came over me. Odd, how such memories stopped coming when I was on tour. There she was, turned away. I had been a gentler man then, despite being the quasi-thug that I was. In bed, I was jelly. And still, she turned away.

The arch of her back, as she held her knees to her chest, seemed to go on forever. I remember slipping the sheet down. Her bottom was smooth, so smooth it felt as if there was no place for me there. But at the touch of my fingers, she softened. Her legs straightened slightly and she stretched, yawned. My fingers seemed to awake something in her. We made love.

"I want you to put your pinky in my ass," she said, "Just a little bit. I'll tell you when."

That's when my memory stopped and I found myself in front of that building again. I knew I had to go in, sooner or later. And since there was nothing for me without Susan, it had better be sooner that I go.

***

"Matthew John Kelman," I said to the woman behind the desk, about to add rank and number,

"That'll do. End of the hall, on your left."

I walked down the hall, not knowing what to expect. When I tried the door, the knob seemed to resist my grip, as if somehow I'd grown weaker, though by now I could lift hundreds of more pounds than the last time I'd been here.

The door opened. Inside, a uniformed woman stood at attention.

"Captain Kelman," she said, matter of factly.

"Yes," I answered.

"Follow me."

She took me back down the same hallway, flashed the receptionist an expressionless look, then opened the door to the basement.

"After you," she ordered.

Most of the basement was dark. When we'd reached the bottom of the stairs, she led me to a spot on the floor and ordered me to stand still. She walked off, disappearing into the darkness.

"Undress," I heard her voice order from far away inside. "Leave your clothes on the floor. Undress fully."

When I'd taken off the last of my clothes, a light flicked on and another door, further in the belly of the basement, lighted up. She opened the door and motioned me to go in.

This was a long and dark stairway. The stairs felt like stone, or a cold, hard kind of wood. Occasionally, a dim light shone from the low ceiling, but other than that I could barely see a thing.

At the bottom, another light flicked. A shower head appeared over a small drain in a concrete floor.

"Wash yourself," the woman ordered.

She stood there to watch. Then, when I finished, she handed me a towel, then a robe, and directed me to a door that I could barely see.

The next room wasn't as dark. That is, it was dark inside, but there was what seemed to be a two-way mirror. I could see into a well-lighted, large room beyond.

As I approached the glass, the sheer size of the next room opened before me. It was huge. The floor seemed like that of a canyon below me. And in the middle of it, a large turbine.

Then my eyes refocused. I don't know how I hadn't noticed the people down there before. Countless men, young men. That is, not younger than me, but still. There could have been upwards of two hundred in there, all naked. The strange thing was, they were walking around in a regular circle, sluggish, pained. Then the sound came to me: they were groaning.

Then I noticed: they were tied up, each on of them chained by the feet to the large turbine in the middle of their room. Their walking had turned the turbine.

The last image I remember from that view was something about the men's chest and shoulders. It was as if they were holding their arms close by their side, or hugging themselves closely.

I felt a sting in the small of my back, and then blackness.

***

When I woke up I couldn't feel my arms. I was in a bed, a white room. I could see as soon as my eyes got used to the brightness.

Then a young, uniformed woman came into the room holding a clipboard. She stood at attention about a yard from the bed.

Soon enough after her, an older man came in, a major.

"Captain," he said, in the way of a greeting.

"Sir," I said, nodding in place of a salute.

"At ease," he added after a slight pause, as if he wasn't sure how to relieve me of the military ceremony.

Then he started: "You've served your country well, my boy. You must realize how thankful your country is for all you've done."

Then he motioned to the young woman, who with a loud click turned the lights off. Then another click, and a projector turned on from a hole, high in one of the walls, the one to might right. On the opposite wall, to my left, the image was projected. I had to crane my neck to look. It was a picture of Susan. She looked a bit older. At her right was a slight man with glasses. They both smiled.

The major continued: "I'm sure, that you'll understand, my boy. This is all, as always, in the service of the country. We can't have the good, brave young boys -- the heroes of our country -- walking around like broken scarecrows in the streets, or lying like rag dolls at home."

A harsh tickling started in my throat. I know I wouldn't be able to cry. I hated myself more than ever.

Then the light went on, the major saluted, and I was left alone with the woman in the room.

As soon as the door shut, she approached the bed. She gave me a remorseless look, as if to say, "It's my job. I need it. Even if I were to feel sorry for you, that wouldn't affect the reality of things. Even if I cared what you'd gone through, I'd toss you off into the darkness pit, just to keep living the only way I'll accept living. I, too, have my needs."

And after a moment of grim staring, she slipped off the sheet that covered my body. Then she raised my head and put two extra pillows under it. I could see what had happened, what had been done to me.

Both my arms were gone, amputated at the very ends of the muscles -- a clean, surgical job. My penis was also gone, the whole shaft, inner and outer. And instead of it there was a large hole.

Then the young woman bend under the bed and produced a shiny stainless steel chain. At both ends of the chain were industrial leg-cuffs. She attached one cuff to one of my ankles, then detached the other from the chain. She rested that cuff on the floor.

Next, she hooked the chain over my shoulder and back down toward that hole where my cock used to be.

Then she slipped the chain through the hole. She took her time, careful in slipping the whole of the chain, so there was no hanging excess.

Then she bent down to pick the other cuff and attached it to the end of the chain, and then cuffed my other leg.

That's it, she nodded coldly. Then she looked over me, reached under the bed again. She must have pressed something.

I went black again.

***

The next thing I felt was a smell. The rancid sweat of other men's unwashed assholes rushed into my face.

I opened my eyes. I lay on some rough cushions with countless other men, all roughly my age. I though I'd recognized some of them, but I'd been so hazy, must have been out of it for so long. It felt like I didn't know what exactly I was, much less what these other men were that lay around me.

"Alight!" a voice shouted from somewhere.

Immediately, I felt lifted. The other men, too, were lifted. We were all lifted by our chains.

"March!" the voice added.

Slowly, all the men began to march, and I, chained with them, marched also.

I looked around me, I don't know why. And here's what I hadn't seen from the dark room with the two-way mirror: High up on the walls were huge monitors. The most hardcore porn played on them. I couldn't even imagine the possibility of some of these things.

Then I felt the rubbing of the chain in the hole between my legs. It rubbed right against what was left of my reproductive system. I was being induced to arousal. I was being fucked.

But no climax ever came, not in minutes, not in hours, not in days. The precum flowed endlessly from an inner hole between our legs. It dribbled down our tighs. It was enough to lubricate the chains, but it crusted over before it reached as low down as our knees.

Three times a day we were fed through tubes that descended from above. I assumed they were days, because we slept when three of these meals had expired. Yet we were fed. We were kept hard at work. It must have been some protein slurry they fed us -- with something extra, because it kept all of us going, at no end.