I looked at Jacob uncertainly, as he stood by the gate. We had fallen to the back of the pack in cross-country, and that was going to lose us valuable points, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I had done well in the sprints, and Jacob was excellent in gymnastics. We each had more than enough points to keep us in the programme, even if we came last now. That was partly why we had fallen back. Other boys had something to prove, but we were through whatever happened.

“What’s the worst they can do you us? Disqualify us and give us no points? That’s what we get for coming last anyway.” Jacob reasoned. “So if we take the short cut we save ourselves a couple of miles, and loads of energy, and even if we did get caught, we are no worse off. Come on!”

I was doubtful still. Jacob had a point, and it was very tempting to slice off half the cross-country course. The field we stood by led up to a stretch of wood and beyond that the circuit looped back for the homeward run, missing out almost the entire moor. It was a perfect short cut. Still, I did not like breaking rules.

“Well I am going for it. If you are too much of a wuss to follow that’s your look out.” And with that Jacob was clambering over the gate and running up the field. I watched him go – and then considered running across two miles of moorland alone and made my decision.

“Wait up, I’m coming” I called.

*

I crossed the finish line, panting after a sprint finish that had taken me well ahead of Jacob. He followed some 30 seconds later, and we were well over half way up the field. We got some curious looks and a few glares from other boys who were pretty sure they had passed us and did not remember us passing them again, but it was worth it. We had finished the course in good time, even having had a rest in the woods before rejoining the course. A wise precaution, we felt, as it would be too obvious had we strolled in first and in record time.

Jacob grinned at me, and we collected refreshments and waited for the stragglers. Last in was Lankie – John Lancaster was his real name but no one called him that. Lankie suited him well, as he seemed to be all arms and legs and no fat at all. Not that this had helped him – it would take a miracle now for him to get enough points to avoid coming last in the programme, and we all knew what that would mean.

The programme was physically and mentally demanding. Only the brightest and most physically active boys were even allowed to enter. Anyone not making the grade in their primary schools were automatically deselected and sent on to the comprehensive education system where they would learn to be good Helots The programme was designed to find just the right kind of boys to become Elite though, and one of the first tests was the test of courage, and that test came just by entering your name for the programme. Because failing at the programme did not mean a return to the comprehensive system. Once starting the programme, there were only two places to end up: A scholarship in the Elite academy, or the slave school for eunuchs. To become an Elite you had to risk failure and life as a eunuch.

And that was where Lankie was heading. There were five parts to the programme – the physical part was the first, but there was also mental agility – which I knew I would be fine with, problem solving, survival skills and politics. Twenty boys entered the programme, and at each stage the boy who came last would be deselected.

Cross-country was the end of the physical section, and we were all pretty sure Lankie was on his way out.

Dad had been so proud of me when I had made the grade for the programme. I could have turned it down. Lots of people did, but the privileges for the Elite were huge. The whole family would benefit if I succeeded, and dad made it quite clear that he wanted better for me than life as a helot. Sure there was a risk, but twenty boys entered the programme and 15 made it to the academy.

Those were good odds.

We strolled over to the hall where the results would be announced, now that everyone had returned. The chief trainer was on the stage, and we sat down in our seats. Lankie was looking decidedly nervous, as were a couple of the other boys, but most boys knew they were through this stage.

“Before I announce the results of the cross country,” The chief trainer began. “I would like to make an observation.”

Was it my imagination? Or was he looking straight at me?

“The cross country circuit forms a large loop.” He went on. “A loop that, if one were very foolish, one could short cut.” He was looking at me. I was sure of it. I felt a lump in my throat.

“Of course if anyone were so foolish as to take a short cut, they would not have realised that there was a check point on the moor.

“Stand up Alex Peterson and Jacob Williams.”

All colour drained from my face, and I knew that the horrified look I saw on Jacob’s face was no doubt mirrored on mine. We got to our feet slowly, trembling with fear.

“You boys are a disgrace to this programme. You are cheats. What are you?”

We mumbled, “Cheats, sir” because to say anything else would be inviting a whole heap of trouble.

“And we don’t want cheats on this programme. However, in view of your good scores in other events, we will give you a second chance. Well one of you anyway.”

I felt my throat constricting. Not wanted on the programme? He was talking about deselecting us?

“You will run the cross country again. Right now. And when you are done, the boy who comes last will be deselected, and all other boys will go through to the next stage of the programme. John Lancaster, you will go through to the next stage, because unlike these boys, you are not a cheat. Alex Peterson, Jacob Williams: one of you will be leaving us today.”

I bowed my head, feeling terrified, and humiliated. Jacob looked just as bad.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Run!”

And we did. We ran out of the hall and off on the cross-country circuit. And I sprinted hard. I hated cross-country, but I knew I could outrun Jacob if I tried, so I did try. I ran hard until I had to slow down, and then with a good lead I loped along around the circuit.

I felt bad for Jacob. He was a friend, and he did not deserve deselection. His gymnastics were amazing, and he would probably have sailed through the other sections too. But it was his fault we were in this fix. If he had not suggested the short cut, Lankie would be on his way out today and we would be safely through. It was his own stupid fault.

So I kept telling myself mile after mile. It was getting dark as I finally saw the hall up ahead and the finish post, and I spurred myself to one last effort, half loping and half sprinting to the finish. If I had run this well the first time around, I would have been halfway up the pack without cheating.

I crossed the finish line and panted, sinking to my knees by the senior trainer.

“Not a bad time, Alex.” He said quietly. “Not bad at all. What a pity you did not do that first time around”

“Yes sir. Sorry sir.” I gasped, trying to get my breath as my running vest stuck to my clammy body.

“Nevertheless, you did cheat, boy. So I am sorry to say you are hereby deselected.”

I turned white, and looked up at the trainer in shock.

“Deselected sir? But… but I thought only the loser would be…”

“Yes, Alex. And you are the loser. Jacob beat you by four minutes.”

The words hit me like a hammer. Jacob beat me? I was ahead of him the whole way. And then I knew.

Jacob had taken the short cut again.

The checkpoint had come back home. No one was checking, and with nothing to lose, he had cheated – and won.

“But sir… he cheated…”

“Silence boy. Stand up.”

I stood up.

I looked around. There was Jacob, with a couple of the other boys, watching me. He looked guilty, but he gave me a small shrug, as though to say, “it was you or me”, and I knew I hated him now. He had cheated on me. I tried again:

“Sir, Jacob must have…”

“I said silence! Alex Peterson, you are hereby deselected from the Elite Academy Training Programme. “ As he spoke, two other trainers grabbed me. I started to struggle, but they were used to that. Probably most deselected boys struggled a bit.

“He cheated sir…”

“So did you. “ And he inserted a ball gag in my mouth and fastened it around the back of my head. Then the trainers pulled off my vest and running shorts, leaving me standing in my black bikini briefs. I blushed and more so when these were removed too and I was marched away naked towards the deselection facility.

“Say good bye to Alex, boys. And Jacob – we will be watching you.” The chief trainer said as I was led away, snivelling now, unable to speak and firmly guided by the two burly trainers.

*

In the deselection facility, I was strapped to a table. I struggled the whole time, but I was 11 and the trainers were adults and used to boys trying to make a run for it, so it did not help although it did earn me a sharp spank on the backside. My eyes were streaming now. I could not believe what I had done! What I had let happen. This morning I was going forward to stage two.

Now I was on my way to the slave school. What would dad think?

I guess I would be one less mouth to feed, but I had failed him. All those hopes and I had let him down, by my own stupidity.

My miserable self-reflection was cut short by the sharp pain of leather fastenings tightening around my ankles and thighs. Straps had been fastened there and then with a flick of the switch the straps were being pulled apart so that my legs were stretched into painful splits. I gasped. Jacob would maybe have been okay with this part, but I was no gymnast, and box splits were not a natural position for me. I moaned behind my gag.

And then someone in a surgical mask was handling my small hairless cock, taping it to my stomach. I looked down at my cock, pointing at me accusingly, as if reprimanding me that it would never get any bigger than it was now. I felt tears sting my eyes and roll down my cheeks as I was injected with an anaesthetic. I sobbed as my balls and much of my abdomen grew numb.

The doctor poked me with a pin in the balls and when I did not flinch, he nodded as if satisfied the anaesthetic had taken effect. Then he took a scalpel, and as I watched, moaning into my gag, he cut a circuit around my scrotum, and shucked off the skin like a glove off a hand. He dropped the skin in a jar, and I saw two blue-grey nuggets exposed to the world, hanging below my penis. I sobbed as blood oozed around them, and watched in both horror and fascination as the doctor inserted some kind of stitch in the cords above the nuggets before severing them. First one, then the other, and the cords seemed to get sucked back inside me as he cut.

Some stitching and application of a swab followed, and it was done. I was no longer a boy. Not even a helot – I would be trained as a slave. My balls would be labelled and displayed in the hall of shame, which we had passed through when we first arrived at the programme.

Only one last indignity remained though. When the dressing was taped into place, the straps were released, and the trainers turned me over on the bench. I was then refastened, and I heard the hum of the tattooing machine starting. I cried into the bench, heartbroken, guilty and as miserable as can be as the doctor tattooed my slave number into my right bum cheek, needling my new identity into the soft flesh. Just below the tattoo would go my permanent record chip. And the first entry in that chip would say I was a cheat.

When he was done, the chief trainer simply said:

"We are done here, number 437." And he left.

The End.

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