Oasis (The Last Humans Book 1)

by Zales, Dima

  I cringe. Instructor Filomena has a flare for the dramatic and often exaggerates how interesting her subject matter is.

  “In her defense,” Phoe whispers, “all Adults are obsessed with the topics they’ve decided to make their life’s work.”

  I ignore Phoe and hope today’s lesson shows more of the ancient world than the usual propaganda.

  “I will not be collecting your assignments today,” Instructor Filomena says. It’s music to my ears, since I just saw the essay on the syllabus. “I’m initiating Virtual Reality right away,” she continues, “so don’t get startled.”

  I’d like to know who gets startled by something they’ve been exposed to most of their lives.

  “Well, you do sometimes get—”

  “Thinking to myself again, Phoe,” I subvocalize at her. “If you want these messages by thought to continue, you need to learn to distinguish which ones are meant for you and which ones are me simply talking to myself—unless, of course, talking to you is the same as talking to myself. In which case, all of this is moot.”

  Phoe mumbles something, but I miss what, because the VR portion of the lesson begins, and it’s one of the few parts of the History Lecture I actually enjoy.

  I’m no longer in my seat in the Hall.

  I’m no longer even in Oasis.

  Instead, I’m standing on a patch of weeds and dirt on top of a majestic green hill. The air is cold and smells of flowers I can’t name. To my right is a gigantic wall that extends through the hill I’m standing on, spiraling for miles as far as the eye can see.

  “This is the Great Wall of China,” I subvocalize. “Right?”

  “Yes,” Phoe says. “I can’t believe she shows you these marvels yet never properly names them.”

  I don’t answer, because before I can savor it all, I’m no longer standing next to the Wall, but next to a giant, half-ruined oval structure I know well: the Coliseum.

  “I bet the Taj Mahal is next,” Phoe says.

  “Shush,” I say. “I’m having the only fun to be had in Filomena’s Lecture.”

  “Told you so,” Phoe says when the next location materializes around me—or is it more accurate to say I materialize in the next location?

  I’m standing next to a white marble structure, trying to take a mental snapshot before the scenery changes again.

  The Empire State Building is next, followed by the Grand Canyon, then the majestic waters of Niagara Falls. The scenes of the ancient world come quicker and quicker until they speed by so fast that I can’t name them.

  Then I see ancient Earth from a tiny round window—a vantage point in space. I love this part because I feel weightless, and because ancient Earth looks so magnificent—a blue world full of life.

  Then, suddenly, comes my least favorite part.

  It’s the same vantage point, only Earth has changed.

  The blue oceans of water, the yellow deserts of sand, the green forests, the red canyons—they’re all gone, replaced by the orange-brown mess of Goo.

  My vantage point zooms in, but I still can’t see Oasis, just an ever-increasing, drab-colored layer of Goo. The view zooms in even more, and finally, after a few more zooms, I see a tiny island of green underneath the barrier of the Dome.

  “Blah, blah,” Phoe says. “The kiddies get it. Oasis is but 0.00000171456 of Earth’s surface and the rest is puke-shit. I think this came across after the first thousand times this point was made.”

  “Much was lost when the technological Armageddon arrived,” the Instructor’s disembodied voice states. “Oasis survived by mere chance, saved by its isolation and by its people’s unwillingness to succumb to the evils of technology run amok. Today, we will study the Amish—the group that inspired our Forebears. Brave souls who shunned the technology of their day, just as we do now.”

  “Is she really not aware of the concept of irony?” Phoe says. “She gives the ‘we denounce technology’ spiel, when every one of your brains is currently at the mercy of your nanocytes, every input and output of every neuron carefully controlled to provide a fully immersive fake reality experience—”

  “Phoe,” I whisper in warning, but it’s to no avail; we’ve hit my imaginary friend’s pet peeve.

  “Technology, in the form of a force field, protects us from the Goo outside.” Phoe’s speech gets maniacally urgent. “Technology in the form of nano-machines dresses you, feeds you, creates the air you breathe, and takes care of the waste you excrete.”

  I don’t disagree with a single word Phoe says; I’m just angry that she’s speaking, so, out of sheer spitefulness, I subvocalize, “The nano replicators are also what turned the world into Goo.”

  I hear Phoe take a deep inhale and prepare for an avalanche of objections, but instead, she says, “I know you’re just trying to push my buttons.”

  “What gave me away?” I try to inject as much sarcasm as one can into a thought.

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Two silent treatments in a single day? I’m definitely getting better at dealing with my imaginary friend,” I think pointedly.

  She still doesn’t reply, so I return my attention to the lesson at hand.

  I’m back in the default empty space, where Instructor Filomena’s booming voice is telling us about the virtues of Amish society. I tune it all out, knowing I’ll only get angry again. Our curriculum, especially Filomena’s History Lecture, is an exercise in cherry picking. For example, she is highlighting our similarities with the Amish but ignoring important differences, like, say, religion. From what I’ve gathered through my own research, the Amish were defined by their religious beliefs, ideas completely foreign to us.

  I expect Phoe to chime in and say something like, “Her parallels are even weaker than the time when she compared Oasis to the visions of the ancient philosopher Plato and his Republic,” but Phoe is still holding a grudge.

  To provoke Phoe to speak, I subvocalize, “Hmm, I wonder if it’s the next stage of my insanity that I can imagine Phoe’s words so exactly…”

  Phoe doesn’t take the bait.

  Bored, I listen to the lesson. After Filomena further jumbles her message and I feel as if I’ve just experienced the most boring fifteen minutes of my life, I subvocalize, “Maybe I shouldn’t have pissed off Phoe.”

  Phoe lets me suffer for another ten minutes before she mumbles a hushed, “Serves you right,” and makes a point to stay quiet for another torturous half hour—the rest of the Lecture.

  “That’s all for today,” Filomena finally says and the reality of the classroom returns. “Remember,” she continues, “as that ancient poet said, those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

  I fight the slight disorientation that always accompanies coming out of VR. In my peripheral vision, I see Grace get up, and I leap to my feet.

  Grace exits the Hall and I follow, ignoring Liam’s attempt to get my attention.

  “Please, Grace,” I say, catching up with her.

  Grace stops in the middle of the corridor and looks back.

  “What?” she says, twirling a red curl around her finger. “Make it quick.”

  “It’s about what Mason might’ve misled you to believe—”

  “Save your lies, Theodore,” Grace says. “I already gave my report to the Dean.”

  4

  “F—”

  “Don’t say anything that will give the snitch more ammunition,” Phoe says, her grievances with me instantly forgotten. “Keep your cool.”

  Focusing on not cursing, I manage to say, “You told?”

  I say the words with some strange hope, as if maybe Grace is just taunting me, but her face looks earnest, and I start to feel something older Youths in Oasis almost never experience.

  Anxiety.

  Some of my turmoil must show on my face, because Grace frowns and says, her voice lowered, “You don’t understand, Theo. Mason needs help. I did it for his sake—and to protect myself.”

  My hands do some
thing unexpected: they turn into fists.

  “Theo, what the hell?” Phoe says. “Did you really just think about hitting a girl?”

  “No,” I subvocalize and take a deep breath. “And what does gender have to do with it?” Before Phoe can respond, I add, “I haven’t thought about hitting anyone for years now, with the exception of Owen, but he’s such an asshole that wanting to hit him obviously doesn’t count.”

  “Walk away, now,” Phoe says, her tone clipped.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” I say to Grace, ignoring Phoe. “Why are you being like this? We used to be friends—”

  “Are you finally building up the courage to call me a snitch to my face?” Grace’s usually melodious voice sounds like a hiss. “You think I don’t know that’s what you and your little band call me? All I’m trying to do is help Mason before he hurts himself or someone else. Just grow up already.”

  And before I can respond, she storms off.

  “That’s odd. I think she’s running—a breach of the rules,” Phoe says, sounding as confused as I feel.

  Liam finally catches up to me and stares at Grace’s disappearing figure. “What the uckfay was that about?”

  “Dude, you can’t just say the f-word in Pig Latin,” I say in Pig Latin. “It doesn’t take a genius cryptologist to figure out what you mean based on the context.”

  “Owblay emay,” Liam says in code, then normally adds, “How’s that? That’s two words: ‘blow,’ which is perfectly allowed, and ‘me,’ which is also allowed.” He grins as I shake my head, then says more seriously, “Listen, dude. Something’s going on, and you have to tell me what it is.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll tell you on the way back to the Dorms.”

  As we leave the Lectures Building, I begin my tale, speaking Pig Latin throughout and keeping my voice low. Campus is overflowing with Youths, and as we walk, I have to politely refuse an invitation to play hacky sack. A short while after, Liam not-so-politely refuses to join a paired badminton game. It’s not until we’re halfway to the Dorms that I finish explaining Mason’s predicament.

  “What did you expect from that itchbay?” Liam says as we approach the soccer field. “He shouldn’t have told her anything. I mean, what the f—”

  Liam doesn’t finish his sentence because at that moment, a soccer ball hits him in the crotch.

  With a gasp, my friend bends at the waist, clutching the injured area.

  Before the ball can roll away, I pick it up and look around.

  Several Youths are approaching us.

  “Are you okay?” asks Kevin, a Youth we rarely interact with. He looks genuinely concerned.

  “Yeah,” says the all-too-familiar, hyena-like voice of Owen. “Are you going to cry, Li-Li-Kins?” he says, using Liam’s despised childhood nickname. “I’m so sorry,” he adds, winking at me.

  A mix of growls, speech, and Pig Latin escapes Liam’s throat.

  Owen sneers. “Usually, hitting sucker balls is a lot more fun than this.”

  Liam takes a step in his direction.

  Still holding on to the ball, I step between them preemptively. I’ve seen this routine play out a million times before.

  Owen and his band of three other misfits hate our trio. The feud goes back to when we were little, when Owen and co. bullied any kid they could. We weren’t such easy prey, though, thanks mainly to Liam. Our crew back then included a few more Youths—Grace among them, if you can believe that. We didn’t allow ourselves to be bullied; we fought back.

  In those early days, things were both simpler and more savage. The Adults closed their eyes to mild violence, considering it an unavoidable side effect of the developing brain. A push was met with a push, a punch with a punch.

  Of course, things changed when we all turned seven and started getting Quietude sessions. The penalties for bullying got so steep that Owen could no longer do it openly, nor could we retaliate without incurring the Instructors’ wrath. On top of that, our desire for violence ebbed, situations like this one aside. Instead of outright bullying, Owen plagues us with pranks, trash talk, and nasty surprises—and we make sure to respond in kind.

  “No reason to get a Quietude session,” I say to Liam with as much calmness as I can muster. “Not over this unfortunate accident.”

  “Yeah, Li-Li-Kins.” Owen is watching my right hand, the one with the ball. “You listen to Why-Odor.”

  Upon hearing my own annoying nickname, I’m tempted to throw the ball at Owen’s face. The only reason I don’t is because I’m certain he’d catch it and probably thank me for giving it back to him. I also consider allowing Liam to do what he wants, but that’s a bad idea, because if Liam really does do anything violent to Owen, he’d be in Quietude for days, if not weeks. Liam getting into trouble is probably part of Owen’s plan, or else he wouldn’t be goading him. He wants to provoke a response since he knows that out of all the Youths in Oasis, Liam is the only one who seems to get occasional violent urges.

  Between my curiosity, Mason’s moodiness, and Liam’s said urges, we’re probably the oddest group of Youths in Oasis—apart from our nemesis in front of me, who is also atypical in his assholeness.

  “Peace is a good choice,” Phoe whispers. “You’re the only one here who’s acting his age.”

  “Shush,” I subvocalize. “I have an idea.”

  “And there goes your maturity.” Phoe chuckles mirthlessly. “You do realize that at twenty-three, the ancients were already considered adults? Just because the Adults here treat you like you’re still five doesn’t mean you should behave like it.”

  Ignoring her, I feign throwing the ball at Owen’s midsection.

  His hands go up in a practiced goalie maneuver, but I don’t let go of the ball.

  Instead, in a rehearsed motion, I gesture with my empty left hand in a way that Liam can see. I’m sticking out my pinky and index fingers—our secret signal from basketball.

  Liam grunts approvingly, and I step to my right.

  From my new location, I pretend to throw the ball at Owen’s head.

  Instinctively, his hands go up.

  I change direction and throw the ball at Liam so quickly that for a moment I doubt he’ll catch it.

  But catch it he does.

  With lightning speed, Liam throws the ball at Owen’s crotch and says, “No hard feelings, dude. Here’s your ball back.”

  With a grunt, Owen clutches his family jewels and falls to the ground.

  “Oh no,” Liam says in his best parody of Owen’s voice. “Do you need us to get the nurse?”

  Owen says something in a falsetto. I’m fairly sure they’re forbidden words, but he doesn’t say them legibly enough to get into trouble. Not that Liam or I would’ve reported Owen for such a thing, but the others might have.

  “It was all a series of accidents, right?” I make eye contact with the other Youths on the field.

  Everyone nods, though a few Youths look at us as if we’re a bunch of rabid gorillas. I don’t blame them. Meditation, yoga, physical exercise, our studies, and other examples of being ‘all proper’ define most Youths. I envy them their uncomplicated worldview.

  With his chin high but his walk a little awkward, Liam leaves the soccer field, and I follow in brooding silence.

  As if we didn’t already have enough problems with this Mason thing.

  After this incident, I’m especially glad that Liam, Mason, and I share a room. Some Youths choose to live in one of the smaller single-person accommodations at the Dorms as they get older, but they don’t have my awesome friends. They also don’t have to worry about idiots trying to prank them at night.

  We discuss Mason’s situation some more as we walk. By the time we enter our room, Liam seems completely recovered from Owen’s strike, so I guess there wasn’t any permanent damage.

  Mason is still sleeping, so Liam comes up to Mason’s bed and shakes him.

  When Mason doesn’t respond, Liam turns to me and says, “The dumb dissid
ent is sleeping like a baby.”

  “Don’t rub it in tomorrow,” I warn Liam. “He’s in enough trouble already.”

  “But I told him to stay away from her,” Liam objects. “I told him, and you told him.”

  I sigh, regretting giving Liam the whole story. “I’m sure he’ll pay for his stupidity.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?” Liam says, looking worried for a change.

  “I have a bad feeling about it,” Phoe replies, as though Liam can hear her.

  “I have no idea,” I say, ignoring her. “I guess all we can do is wait and see.”

  “Good job thinking up the ‘sick’ idea,” Liam says. “He might milk that a bit before his punishment comes down. Maybe if they think he’s sick and has missed too much school, his Quietude sentence will be reduced?”

  “Maybe,” I say, trying to project a hope I don’t feel.

  What I do feel is the anxiety from earlier, only intensified. I’m also exhausted.

  “It’s the aftermath of an adrenaline rush,” Phoe says. “You’re not used to disturbances in your equilibrium. Sleep should help.”

  At the mention of sleep, I yawn loudly.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Liam says, giving me a frustrated look. “It’s still early. We can—”

  “I’m going to sleep,” I say firmly, and to underscore my intent, I make the two-palms-up-and-down gesture to activate my bed’s appearance.

  “Assembly,” Phoe corrects. “It’s the nanos that—”

  “Pedantic much,” I subvocalize back.

  “Fine, later,” Liam says and creates a chair for himself.

  I take my shoes off and get on my bed as they disappear—get disassembled, I correct myself for Phoe’s benefit.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Liam plop into his chair. Given his posture, I assume he brought up his private Screen and is thinking of what to do on it.

  Feeling generous, I bring up my own Screen and send him a movie recommendation: The Wizard of Oz.

  With that, I make a gesture for the blanket to ‘assemble’ and cozy up with it. My eyes close, but sleep doesn’t come as quickly as it usually does.

  Oh well, I can help nature. I tighten the muscles around my eyes in a gesture that would usually initiate assisted sleep, but oddly, nothing happens. My mind continues buzzing with thoughts of everything that’s happened today. I try again, but the result is the same.