by Julie Hyzy
“Difficult, eh?” he said. “I’ve been called worse.”
“I’ll bet you have.”
He tapped his right foot in a rhythm that, judging by his face, played in his mind. Skin slapping against the speckled floor made a strange soft sound in the otherwise silent room. Claire reassessed the situation. Unless his paperwork could be found, she’d be unable to complete her task. This never happened. There weren’t even any rules to follow in a situation like this. She wrinkled her nose in frustration and Jack, of course, noticed.
“So, why do you want to see me dead so bad?”
Taken aback, she blinked. “I don’t care if you’re alive or dead. But I have a job to do.”
Jack nodded. “Got a deal for you, then, Claire,” he said, sitting up.
“A deal.”
“Yep,” Jack licked his lips and stared over her head for a moment, as if planning a chess move in his mind. “How about I stop being difficult. How about I make your job really easy.”
“Okay,” Claire said, stringing the word out, wondering where this was going.
“I’ll answer any question you want to ask. I’ll even answer truthfully,” he said, his eyes widening, making him look sincere. “But for every question you ask me, I get to ask you one. And you have to answer truthfully.”
This guy was nuts. Claire wished she had his file just so that she could read about what strange antics had gotten him here. “That’s stupid.”
“Why, Claire? You’ll get what you want. I’ll get what I want.”
“What do you want,” she asked, then amended, “besides releasing your soul to Pardemain?”
“I want to feel as though I’ve made my mark on this world.”
“And you think that asking me questions is going to do that?”
“At this point,” he waved his hands, in a gesture that took in the small room and all its furnishings, “I don’t have a lot of options open to me.” He looked Claire straight in the eye, “You never know, maybe if you spend a little time sharing your thoughts, you’ll manage to convert me.”
How did he know that that was exactly what was going through Claire’s mind? What a coup that would be. Trying to not look too eager, Claire nodded. “All right. Let me pull out my list.”
“One other thing,” he said. “No more than three questions per day.”
Claire sighed in exasperation. “Fine.”
Later, filing a report on her patient of the day, Claire congratulated herself. She’d gotten three vital pieces of information on Jack, which she could use to start an inquiry of her own. If all went well, she’d have everything she needed from the records department within the week, and she could stop having to rely on Jack for information.
She’d gotten his last name, his revisionist number and his last residence. All three facts were safe in her new file she’d created.
In return he’d asked her three ridiculous questions. How old she was (twenty-nine), if she had any family (no. her parents died when she was eleven; she’d been raised by the state), and what she liked to do in her spare time (what spare time? she’d asked, then admitted she liked to walk, especially in the evenings when the sky changed colors as the sun went down.)
Hunched over her computer terminal, she started the inquiry process. Tapping in the information with rapid efficiency, she smiled to herself, remembering Jack’s reaction when she mentioned walking. That, he’d said, was one of his favorite things to do as well. He said he liked to look up at the stars and imagine that people on other planets were looking at them too, and thinking about him.
Claire glanced up at the window, the last shimmer of sunlight cut a bright orange line across the corner of the wall. If she wanted to get out tonight, she’d have to hurry. Curfew was one hour after sundown and it wouldn’t do for her to be written up.
“What do you like to eat?”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Food.”
Jack leaned forward from the orange chair, his elbows on his knees. “Come on, Claire, you can do better than that.”
She sighed, “There’s not that much to choose from, really,” she said, considering. “I guess I’d have to say fresh baked bread.”
Jack’s eyebrows went up. “Wow, Claire, you really know how to let loose.”
“No, it’s…” she started to explain, but stopped herself. Over the past two days, she’d gotten plenty of facts about Jack, but his questions were more personal, more probing, even if they seemed innocuous. She couldn’t imagine why telling him her food preferences made her feel vulnerable, but it did.
“I’m listening.”
She shook her head.
“Claire,” he said, “tell me what it is you like about fresh baked bread and I’ll let it count as another question.”
He was sitting up, looking at her, his eyes interested, alert.
She wanted to tell him that her mother had made bread every day. That the smell of the yeast, the warmth of the crust and the softness of the tender middle all served as tactile reminders of her parents, long gone. She wanted to say that she missed her parents, that she missed being comforted, feeling safe—and that it wasn’t the bread, but what the experience represented that made the difference to her. Sometimes she was so lonely, it hurt. She shook her head.
“Okay,” he said, softly. “But I got another tough one for you.”
She looked up.
“Why do you do this?”
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. Opening her mouth, she began to say, “Because it’s what I’m suited for.” And it would be the truth. As a ward of the state, she was pressed into service at a young age and through the years and a myriad of personality and psychological tests, it was determined that she was best qualified for facilitating releases. She had no family, no ties. Years of institutionalized living had annealed her. She wasn’t one of those women who could nurture children. Those soft-hearted females whose tears flowed freely when they heard a sad story. Relationships, people – these were less important to her than efficiency and pride in a job well done.
Beside which, she worked for The Right. Indoctrinated at the tender age of twelve, The Right was all she knew. It was what she believed in. A memory nagged. She seemed to remember that her parents had disdained the teachings of The Right. But that was something she’d managed to compartmentalize—to file away for analysis—someday. She had no choice, really. She could hope to be promoted, but that wouldn’t happen until she started converting the unenlightened. Maybe if she were more compassionate she’d start to have some luck.
But she didn’t speak right away. Truth was, she had experienced doubt. When the mother of the grown children had asked to hold her hand, she questioned the need for people to face their ‘release’ alone. Why could the woman’s family not be with her at such an important time in her life? What was it that the administration didn’t like about having others present? No one but the technician and the soul to be released were allowed in the Freedom Room. No tours were ever given.
And even if the person converted, they weren’t allowed back into society until they completed their required time at the internment camp. Claire hadn’t ever been there, but she’d heard that it was a time of cleansing. Of awakening and of forgetting much of one’s prior life. In a retreat-like atmosphere.
Instead of answering, she glanced at the chronometer and stood. “See you tomorrow.”
From her office window, Claire could see the meditation chapel, the small marble outbuilding brilliant white across the wide expanse of dark pavement. She wondered, for just a moment, if she needed a visit there to focus herself.
The facility was designed for staff self-improvement. Inside, individual meditation booths boasted soft beds in pastel colors where overworked and overstressed techs could listen to audio affirmations soothe over them, repeating messages of The Right’s certainty, of divine assurance.
Claire had visited there only once before, after completing the release procedure on an eighteen year old gi
rl. She’d spent hours with the teenager, adjusting and readjusting the controls to suit her patient’s fickle whims. After blowing out a breath of exasperation, Claire had looked over at the girl. She lay prone on the bed, an insolent smile on her face, issuing brisk commands. But behind the bravado, Claire thought she saw terror flicker in girl’s bright blue eyes.
In her T-shirt decorated with the words “This I know,” and a pair of dirty blue shorts, she looked innocent enough. But The Right knew better.
She’d been Claire’s youngest patient.
It had seemed such a waste. Couldn’t they have given the girl one more chance? Surely, she would see the light eventually. She was so young.
Still, Claire believed in the process, just as she believed that this girl’s soul would be at peace in Pardemain.
“Comfortable?” Claire had asked as she pulled the last strap into place.
When the girl didn’t answer, Claire glanced to make sure she was awake. It was imperative that patients be aware of their spiritual journey.
At the last minute the girl had chosen to forego all the room enhancements she’d demanded earlier. She stared with an intensity Claire hadn’t understood at the blank ceiling above.
One tear trembled, then trailed softly down the side of her upturned face.
Later that day, alone in the quiet meditation booth, Claire had listened to the soft voice of The Right, desperately wanting the measured words to strike the familiar chord of conviction in her heart. She’d whispered her questions aloud to help reestablish her faith, but The Right’s teachings—teachings that forced healthy, bright, unwilling young people to be sent to Pardemain, felt surprisingly hollow in her heart.
Before heading home, Claire checked her messages. There were two. The first was a schedule update notification. The second, and Claire held her breath as she accessed it, was from the office of records.
It had come.
Enough information, enough to create a proper file on Jack. His termination could be scheduled for as early as tomorrow.
Claire read his transgressions. Broken curfew twice. Observed carrying unapproved reading material, five times. A few other equally minor offenses. None of which warranted termination. Claire read on.
It is the opinion of this council, that although citizen Number: 9X3327 has not crossed the line on any one offense, his existence is counter-productive to the goals of The Right. At one time considered for a council position, he has questioned every tenet and in doing so, has appeared to be opposed to the true beliefs. Though he has not brought his beliefs to the forefront, we nonetheless decide that his termination is for the greater good.
But… that wasn’t right. They were going to terminate Jack because they believed he might become a problem in the future. With no evidence to prove that?
Claire stared at the screen for a long time.
Strapped securely to the Freedom Bed, Jack called to her again. “Claire? Did the equipment malfunction?”
“Tell them you’ve converted,” she said, opening the straps. Her hands, wet with perspiration, stuck to the filmy fabric. She shook them with impatience and wiped them on her pants before resuming. “Please. You’ll be released anyway. I made it look like a malfunction. But if you say you’ve converted, things will go easier for you.”
There. He was free. She looked at him and asked, “Will you do that?”
“But what if I don’t believe in The Right?”
“Tell them you do.”
“Claire,” he said, “you’re releasing a known dissident into the public. Do you know how much trouble I can cause?”
She met his eyes. “Yes.”
“What happened to your beliefs?”
How could she tell him about the woman whose hand she held? About the young girl, so young, who faced death with bravery and defiance? She took a deep breath and looked away.
She would request a transfer to another division. She would dissolve slowly out of sight. It happened. Burnout mostly, but occasionally a technician had a change of heart. Mostly they sent them to the internment camps. In severe cases, the tech was terminated. But with her near-perfect service to The Right to date, she’d probably get away with a mild reprimand.
“But, Claire—”
“It’s too late anyway. You’re free. I’ll be okay.”
“You think so?”
She’d moved to the file to input some notes. “Here,” she said, “sign this. I’ll counter-sign and then Hank will escort you out. You’ll be safe.”
She watched him nod, once. He headed to the control panel.
She frowned. “What are you doing?”
Typing at the keyboard, he ignored her. The terminal answered his input with familiar beeps and chirps. “What are you doing?” she asked again.
Jack didn’t answer. He turned and spoke into the communications portal. “Hank.”
And when Hank appeared almost instantly, Claire understood.
Jack raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “The machinery would have failed, Claire. I was always safe.” He smiled at her, showing those beautiful white teeth. “You weren’t.”
Claire stared, silent.
“Do you remember your trip to the meditation room, Claire? Did no one ever teach you to hold back? You were far too honest, too revealing. So we had to arrange for this … test.” He shrugged, as though the matter was of no consequence. “And the joke of it is, you’d been in line for promotion. You had the just the right combination of cold personality and driving efficiency. You were perfect. Until the young girl. And that woman who held your hand.” He shook his head. “Now, with what you’ve done here—for me,” he said, gesturing toward the control panel, “you’ve become a liability.”
Claire sat down again, and rubbed her forehead. She didn’t cry.
“You’re very good,” she said, finally.
“Thank you.”
“What happens now?”
For a split second, Jack’s eyes softened. “What do you think happens now?”
Hank grabbed Claire’s arm. She knew it was futile to fight, but she tried anyway. She had to. Visions of the woman, of the girl, of all the people she’d put to death – their last moments, sliced through her mind. She wanted to tell them she was sorry. Hank pushed her toward the Freedom Bed, his face impassive. Moments after she’d been strapped securely, he left, without a backward glance.
Jack worked the monitor, not looking at her. His fingers moved like lightning, preparing to put the deadly serum into play. The last minute countdown began.
He kept his back to her. Maybe, if she could get him to look her way, maybe there’d be a chance of changing his mind.
“Jack?” she whispered, using his name for the first time.
She watched his hand stop momentarily. He shook his head and chuckled.
“Sorry babe. Not my real name.”
