Verity Sherman walked down the central colonnade of the Facility, a pretty young woman in a pastel yellow sundress, her full lips pursed with trepidation. It was Monday morning; the Committee was meeting at ten thirty-five to discuss her latest progress report. Verity noted the time with an anxious turn of her wrist. Attendance was mandatory, she couldn't afford to be late by even a few seconds. She quickened her pace to match the pounding in her chest.

The colonnade was a vast expanse of iridescent columns sweeping off into an alabaster limbo. Opalescent pillars loomed on either side, their crystal surfaces glimmering in the muted light. Verity could hear her heels clicking along the vast corridor, remote echoes in the brooding, marble stillness. A fresh summer breeze seemed to flicker along the Italian floor tiles, raising the hem of her dress.

It was a trick, of course. Like everything else in the Facility, the breeze was an illusion, a simple mirage redolent with the scent of grape and honey-suckle. Deception was the only truth in this house of vacant fantasies. Everything here was either a lie, a dream or a nightmare - although the boundaries between the three were somewhat obscure, Verity had come to realize.

In the three months since she'd entered the Program, Verity had been exposed to indignities without number: probes and penetrations; medical procedures which invariably left her shaken and tearful. The invasions never seemed to end. They'd explored her most intimate recesses with a barrage of wicked-looking instruments, delving and touching and pricking and poking until she'd begged them to stop, wailing like a child as each new device was inserted.

Still, there was something worse than all the violations she'd suffered over the past ninety days.

There were the Interviews.

Reaching the end of the colonnade, Verity entered an equally extravagant hallway decorated with Baroque oils - Rembrandts, Van Dykes, Rubens and hundreds of others she'd never heard of. The walls were covered with thick indigo velvet, lending the hall the appearance of some lavish private gallery. Verity wasted no time examining the artwork; she could think about improving her cultural literacy if she survived her probation. As it was, she'd be lucky to make it through the next twenty-four hours with her sanity intact.

Verity wasn't alone in her never-ending pilgrimage through the Hall of Wonders. Like every other candidate in the Reorientation Program, she had a bodyguard assigned to accompany her whenever she moved about the Facility. A combination security guard, escort and prison warder, he rarely spoke, other than to inform her which door to enter or what direction to take.

Verity looked shyly up at the man striding beside her. He was a big, heavy-set veteran in a black business suit, aged perhaps in his mid-thirties. He walked with the precise, measured step of a military serviceman. His dark, impassive face was masked by a pair of reflector sunglasses, enhancing his hard, disciplined bearing. The tag on his lapel read TYLER, F. Verity had often wondered what the 'F' stood for, but had never summoned up the courage to ask. She was under strict instructions never to engage the bodyguards in private conversation.

They walked past a chain of sumptuous Rococo sculptures depicting the Rape of Persephone ('rape' being the operative word in this case), arriving before an enormous oaken door, half as tall as a Los Angeles apartment block. Verity's gaze wandered up to the coat of arms mounting the portal. Painstakingly embossed on the sepia woodgrain was a silver serpent coiled around a cross. The letters 'TVC' were inscribed in gold leaf directly below the shield. Verity had never understood the significance of the crucified snake, but she thought she knew what the initials stood for.

The bodyguard stepped in front of her, his large frame blocking her view of the logo. He must have been at least four feet across the shoulders. Touching a finger to the side of his sunglasses, Tyler F spoke quietly into his comset.

"Miss Sherman's here."

Endless grey silence for several seconds, followed by an equally ominous click: hidden locks turning in varnished oak panel. Verity's knees weakened as she contemplated the reception awaiting her on the other side of that monstrous door. She was dizzy, light headed; almost feverish with fear and expectation. It was a consistent paradox: despite her misgivings, Verity always felt a thrill of excitement as she prepared to face the Committee.

The door opened, evidently of its own volition.

"Go in," Tyler told her dispassionately.

Stealing a final, calming breath, Verity stepped across the threshold.

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