by Charles Ray
“Find Hiroshi Jackson, and bring him to my office,” she responded drily.
7.
Hiroshi, Washington, and Clementine had just finished supper and were heading to the roof of the building to gaze at the stars, or what few stars that could be seen through the perpetual odorous haze that hung over the community, when a stiff backed attendant stopped them in the hallway and informed Hiroshi that he was wanted in the headmaster’s office.
Hiroshi looked curious, while his friends looked worried. It couldn’t be good to be summoned by the headmaster after the end of the formal work day, when every one of the crèche residents was supposedly free to do whatever pleased him or her. The ever-present loudspeaker announcements continued – they didn’t cease until a heartbeat before final lights out – but the proles who were confined to the crèches felt free to ignore them during the free period – or, blatantly ignore them, for they paid them little heed even during the day.
In his eleven years at the crèche, Hiroshi didn’t remember ever hearing of anyone being summoned during rest period. This was the time when the attendants even disappeared. Oh, he knew they were still watching through the cameras they had mounted discretely throughout the facility, but during the free period, the stone-faced attendants went to wherever they went, leaving Hiroshi and his friends and fellow inmates to themselves.
As he walked the hallway from the dining facility to the administrative section, ignoring the puke green color of the walls, he wondered why he was being summoned. Olympus had already tried to embarrass him in front of the others for daydreaming in class; and he did it so much, he didn’t think she would make a special issue of it. Maybe, he thought, the monitor at the pig enclosure had reported him and Washington for horsing around when they should have been working in bent-head silence. But, if that was it, he wondered, why wasn’t Washington also being summoned?
His mind had considered and discarded several possibilities by the time he reached the door to the headmaster’s outer office. The blank faced woman sitting at the desk in the outer office recognized him, and told him to have a seat until the headmaster was ready for him. Of course, he thought; ask me to hurry up and get here so I can wait until you’re good and ready to tell me why you had me hurry here in the first place. He tried to keep his expression neutral as he sat on one of the hard plastic chairs lining the wall in front of the woman’s desk. She thumbed a button on her desk communicator and mumbled something he couldn’t clearly hear. There was a crackling sound of static, and she went back to staring at a paper on her desk.
Hiroshi lost track of time. His mind wandered. Back. Back to a time when he lived with his mother and father in the space beneath the city not far from the old building that his father said his grandfather worked in. He’d played in the tunnels forking off in all directions as a child, always careful never to go so far that he couldn’t hear his mother’s voice should she call him. But, he loved the times when his father would take him exploring, deep into the catacombs beneath what had once been, according to his father, the most powerful city on earth.
He really liked the special place. Deep, deep beneath the surface, out of reach of the black-suited monitors who kept track, or tried to keep track, of everyone in the prole community, was a large space that was filled from bottom to top with books. There were books of all kinds, in hundreds of languages; in precise type or ornate, unintelligible scripts, with pictures of strange people, strange buildings and costumes, and strange conveyances. The books opened up for him a world that had been destroyed before his birth, but remained alive within their pages – a world that he could only dream of.
Using some of the easier books in the English language, Hiroshi’s father had taught him to read, write, and do simple arithmetic by the time he was four years old. By the age of six, he’d graduated to more advanced books, and in the process picked up a working knowledge of Spanish, German, French, and Italian. The non-alphabetic languages, like Chinese and Arabic remained a mystery to him. From a collection of atlases, he’d learned to read maps and had in his head an image of what the country, the world, had looked like before the ice caps melted, forever changing the shape of coastlines around the globe. He’d bombarded his father with a hundred questions, mostly about why, if there was land to the west of New Liberty, did people stay in what amounted to a crowded ghetto, with dirt, disease, and poverty.
After the men in black; the monitors; had found their hiding place and taken him away, never to see his parents again, he soon understood why.
The two of them had just returned to the cramped living space from the hidden cache of books. His mother was preparing supper on the little methane-powered hotplate, and the smells of the vegetables she was stir frying filled the space. Hiroshi had just turned seven, and was now allowed to help set the small table with the cracked china plates his father had found in the basement of a building a few miles away.
Hiroshi had just finished setting the plates on the table when there was a loud clatter, and the wooden door was turned to splinters with a loud bang.
His mother screamed, dropping the wok she’d been holding. His father rushed and grabbed Hiroshi, shielding him from the baton-wielding man in a black uniform, his face covered by a visor, who pushed through the door.
“Step away from the child, prole,” the monitor said.
“Ulysses,” Junko Jackson cried. “Don’t let them take Hiroshi.”
“What do you want?” Ulysses asked.
“You know what we want, prole. Now, for the last time, step away from the child.”
“No, you can’t have him.”
“Ulysses Jackson,” the monitor said in a dry, even voice. “You are in violation of New Liberty regulations concerning the education and housing of prole children. I am placing you and your mate under arrest, and the child will be transported to a crèche for proper indoctrination.”
“No-o-o-o!” Junko shrieked.
Hiroshi was hugged close to his father’s body, so he couldn’t see what was happening, but he could hear. And, he heard the crunch of something hard contacting with something soft. He heard the moaning of his mother and father. Then, he felt himself being yanked from his father’s arms. He began to scream.
As the monitor carried him up the ladder to the surface, he heard his father’s muffled voice, “Always remember, Hiroshi. Don’t ever forget. You are-” which was quickly cut off by the sound of a metal truncheon impacting with flesh, and a grunt of pain.
After that everything was a blur. He was still screaming when they took him from the monitor vehicle at the entrance to the Columbus Heights Crèche and turned him over to a bored looking attendant.
Yes, Hiroshi knew well why people stayed in New Liberty.
People stayed because they had no choice. New Liberty was surrounded by a twelve-foot-high wire fence topped with sharp razor wire. The fence was guarded around the clock by units of monitors armed with flechette guns, and anyone caught trying to get over, through, or under the fence was executed on the spot. New Liberty wasn’t a ghetto; it was a prison, and the proles within its boundaries were prisoners – prisoners serving life terms of hard labor.
And now, Hiroshi felt, not like a student called to the principal’s office, but a prisoner summoned by the warden to be punished for some infraction of the rules, written and unwritten, that controlled every moment of their lives. As he so often did when he thought about life in New Liberty, he felt anger welling up inside him. His face was hot and the muscles of his cheeks tight.
“You can go in now,” the bored woman said.
Hiroshi didn’t hear her at first, lost as he was in his thoughts, so she repeated it with a rising note of impatience.
He stood, brushing the wrinkles from the legs of his singlesuit, and walked to the door of the headmaster’s office.
He pushed the door open and stepped through.
Hiroshi has seen many expressions on Octavia Olympus’s face during his time in the crèche. The most common
one was resigned exasperation at his antics, but on occasion he’d seen anger, and very rarely, something almost approaching a smile. What he saw now, though, was something he’d never seen before; Olympus looked sad. Her eyes glistened, and a muscle in her left cheek twitched constantly. She only briefly looked into his eyes, and then down at her hands which she held before her on the desk.
“You wanted to see me, headmaster?”
He stood in front of her desk, his hands clasped before him.
Finally, after what felt to Hiroshi like an eternity, she looked up. He had no doubt; there was sadness in her eyes.
“Have a seat, Hiroshi,” she said.
That triggered an alarm bell in his brain. In all the years he’d been at the crèche, she had never addressed him by his first name. It was usually, Mr. Jackson in a tone of frustration.
He sat on the plastic chair she kept in front of her desk, his knees together, looking levelly across the desk at her.
“What is it? Why am I here?”
“You know, Hiroshi,” she said. “While you can be supremely frustrating at times, you are one of the best students I’ve seen the entire time I’ve worked here in Columbus Heights.”
There was his first name again; and, calling him a student. This wasn’t good, and Hiroshi knew it, but, try as he might, he couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong.
“I’m sorry, headmaster,” he said, and found that he really meant it. Old Olympus, despite her often sour expression, wasn’t too bad. “It’s just that the stuff you teach us is so boring.”
Olympus sighed.
“If you think it’s boring for you, think what it must be like for those of us who have to teach it year after year. But, we have no choice; we must teach the approved curriculum.”
“But, you’re only teaching us enough so we know how to turn machines on and off. I can learn that stuff in one day, so why do I have to listen to it for so many years?”
He knew the answer to his question. He remembered reading a book on brainwashing, and a novel, Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, shortly before the monitors invaded their home and took him away. He hadn’t understood a lot of it until he’d been in the crèche for a few months, but he was a quick study, and it came to him. They were being conditioned; their minds indoctrinated, not just to labor incessantly and efficiently, but to love and accept it. They were being brainwashed, but he doubted that Olympus would admit such. And, she didn’t, at least not directly.
“Our job is to make sure you leave here as productive members of the community,” she said. “To do less wouldn’t be fair to the community, or to you.”
“But, if you taught us more, and we could choose what we do, wouldn’t it be better for the community?”
Her expression went blank.
“The wisdom of the community is superior to the thoughts of the individual,” she said in a mechanical voice.
Holy cripes, Hiroshi thought, she’s been brainwashed, too. “I see, headmaster,” he said. “But, it’s still boring. I’ll try to pay better attention in the future, though.”
Olympus looked at him, blinking back tears.
“T-that’s nice of you, Hiroshi. You know, I’ve always thought of you as the best student here; the one with the most potential.”
“Uh, thank you,” Hiroshi said. He began to hope that this might not be a case of him being in trouble. Maybe he was about to be told that he’d qualified for a technician job rather than being assigned as a mere factory laborer. On rare occasions particularly talented proles were sent to work as technicians under the supervision of a citizen technician. It was a small step above laborer, but even small steps were appreciated.
“But, I’m afraid . . . that is . . . I called you here tonight to deliver what won’t be good news.
Hiroshi leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
“I . . . oh, hell, there’s no better way to do it,” she said. She never used coarse language, even in front of the proles, and her indiscreet words caused her face to redden.
She pulled the single sheet from beneath the pile and pushed it across the desk at him. Her hands shook.
Hiroshi recognized the red-bordered paper. He picked it up and began reading the names, dreading what he knew he would find, and feeling a cold stab in his chest when he found it.
“B-but, why? I mean, if I’m such a good student, and I’ve never broken any laws, why would I be selected?”
She wiped at a droplet of liquid that welled from the corner of her right eye.
“I don’t know, Hiroshi,” she said. “I honestly don’t know. I shouldn’t even be telling you this. The normal procedure is for those chosen to be taken from class quietly after the first period. But, I felt I owed it to you.”
Hiroshi breathed slowly and deeply, trying to collect his thoughts and calm his mind. His body felt cold and numb.
“Thank you, headmaster,” he said quietly. “Will there be anything else. I’d like to be alone now if you don’t mind.”
Olympus stood and came around the desk. She rested her hand on his neck. He could feel the warmth of her flesh against his, and a slight trembling in her hand.
“I understand, Hiroshi. I mean, I don’t really understand why this is happening, but I understand you wanting to be alone, I suppose. I wish there was something I could do.”
He patted her hand gently, and stood.
“Thank you. I guess this is goodbye.”
Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and walked out of her office. He felt like crying, but was damned if he’d let anyone see him do it.
When he was gone, Octavia Olympus sat behind her desk and wept quietly.
8.
Once outside the administration area, Hiroshi wandered aimlessly for several minutes, unmindful of his surroundings.
The feeling of cold fear that had greeted the news that he had been selected for culling was soon replaced with the heat of anger. His father’s last words, ‘always remember’ kept replaying in his mind. He knew the meaning now, and knew what he must do.
He was torn between seeking Washington and Clementine out and telling them of his impending fate, but decided against it. They would be devastated enough, he knew, when the monitors came from him on the morrow. Instead, he decided to go to the place he often went when he wanted to be alone to think.
He made his way down the hall to the end, and through the door that led to the roof. Up the dark stairwell and out the door onto the gravel-covered flat roof, he found himself standing among a garden of cylindrical structures, pitted and red with rust. He walked to the edge, where he could look out over the Columbus Heights district of New Liberty’s prole community. The only lights visible were the orange glows from the factory furnaces where the night shift labored away. The ever present smog from the factory’s smoke stacks obscured the sky. Only the hazy oval of a full moon was visible through the yellow-gray pall of smoke.
Looking into the inky darkness, he imagined clearly what was not visible to his eyes; people crammed ten or more to a room designed for less than half that number, plumbing that spouted brown gunk when it worked, no electricity or ventilation, living in worse conditions than the animals destined for the abattoir. The thought made what he had to do easier; not easy by any stretch, but easier. There would, though, be no turning back. Once he was committed he would have to go all the way.
That thought caused sadness deep within his breast. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He’d been so absorbed in his thoughts, he hadn’t been aware of Clementine’s presence until he felt her slender arms slip around his waist.
“Why are you up here by yourself, Hiroshi?” she asked. She rested her face against his back. He could feel her warmth through his singlesuit.
He leaned back, and she hugged him closer. “I just felt like coming up here to look at the stars,” he said.
“What are stars? I’ve never seen one.”
No one in New Liberty had seen stars in the
sky for decades because of the cloud of pollution that hung permanently over the community, but it was their standing joke.
“I can see them in my mind,” he said. He’d also seen pictures of stars and constellations in the books his father had shown him. “They are beautiful.”
“I wish I could,” Clementine said wistfully.
“You know; out there beyond the boundary fence, there are no factories. I’ll bet out there you can see the stars at night.”
She laughed.
“Hiroshi, you have the wildest imagination. You know there’s nothing outside the fence but wild animals and pollution so thick it would kill a person.”
He turned to face her. Their faces were almost level.
“That’s what they tell you,” he said. “But, how do you know it’s true?”
“They wouldn’t lie. That comes from The Committee, and they represent the community. Anyway, why would they lie to us about something like that?”
He placed his hands on her shoulder, looking deeply into her eyes.
“That’s easy,” he said. “They tell you a lie like that so you won’t want to leave, and you’ll be happy to remain here as a slave. Think about it Clem, if there’s so much pollution humans can’t live out there, how could there be wild animals? And, why do they have gates in the fence, and guards outside? Tell me that?”
A look of confusion crossed her face. “I don’t know. That’s just the way things are. It’s not for us to question the wisdom of The Committee.”
He didn’t want to be harsh with her, but on today of all days, despite the fact that she knew no better, having been raised on a diet of propaganda, it angered him that she was unable to use her brain to see the inconsistencies, in fact, outright lies they’d been fed.
“No, Clementine, that’s what they want you to believe. Things are different, believe me.”
“How do you know these things, Hiroshi? What makes you think you’re smarter than The Committee?”
