Be Thou My Vision
By Cori Elizabeth
Text copyright © Cori Elizabeth. All rights reserved.
To God and my parents, who gave me the hands, heart, and mind to create stories.
The Presentation of the Last Chance
“Trainees, now that you have reached the age of fourteen years, it is time for you to make your ultimate decision about what you would like your life to look like. Welcome to the presentation of the Last Chance.”
In the overwhelming openness of the central atrium, every shimmering white plane illuminated by the multitude of brilliant lights above, the announcer’s voice echoes until the words become nearly indistinguishable. Banners of white and silver are draped around the stage and at various points along the distant walls, hanging flawlessly still and straight in the stagnant air. All around the half-kilometer wide, rounded space are parallel lines of doors and windows, the entrances to the Optic’s and trainee’s dormitories, stretching twenty-two levels high in a perfectly repeating pattern that is broken only in the first eight floors by three cavernous openings in the walls. Through each of these runs one monorail, to the South, East, and West Quadrants, which lead to the homes of the Plenties. A jumbled collection of curved, interconnected buildings graces the center of the vast area, several of the structures extending all the way up to the spherical ceiling, melding into its upper limits and disappearing farther into the unknown depths of the Mass. This is where the government lives, the center from which they run the lives of the thirty thousand people inhabiting the city, and they do not often tolerate outsiders within their walls.
In the midst of all of these architectural feats I sit, one of two hundred gaunt and bony teenagers arranged into perfect rows facing the stage on which the announcer, and several dozen Governors behind him, are arranged. The men stand proud in black pants and colored, button-down shirts, while the women wear stiff dresses of whatever style they like. It’s a far cry from the torn, rough, white fabric hanging off the rest of us. The president has finished his yearly address, and the announcer has stepped up to the podium. Their words are dominated by pomp and circumstance, but behind the façade of ceremonial grandeur I can hear the conviction, the expectation. Just in the fact that we can see their faces, we are already wrong in their eyes.
“Many of your peers chose long ago to aspire to a life of prosperity, longevity, and righteousness; one small sacrifice, the loss of just one of the many senses this government has granted you, in exchange for the promise of a perfect, stable, happy life. Who would choose otherwise?”
The announcer grins widely, his bulbous cheeks folding in on themselves in dimples only exaggerated by the sheer quantity of flesh that surrounds them. From where I sit, his compatriots’ faces form a wall of tan, brown and pink around him, a jumble of thriving humanity from which now emanates an appreciative chuckle. Though he is addressing us all, the announcer seems to know exactly to whom he is expected to direct his gaze, picking his way through the teenagers seated before him and alighting on those particular visages, mine included, that have proven themselves to be a challenge to the government’s will. With a deep, self-important breath he continues, “And yet there exist those who would make that other choice, and the government, in its infinite mercy, allows you that freedom. In society, however, there are some who must serve the greater good, and so, in exchange for what a small percentage of you perceive as the privilege of keeping your sight, we then ask that you would serve your compatriots willingly and joyously. Thus, the government presents to you today two options. Will you choose the path of noble sacrifice and join the vast majority of humanity, living in guaranteed contentedness for the rest of your days?” He pauses, savoring the hushed silence that comes in the absence of his sonorous words. “Or will you choose the path of self-servitude and egocentricity, keeping your sight for yourself and serving the needs of the sightless in order to earn your right to stay in the city? One by one we will call your name to come up on stage. You will publicly declare your decision today and then, only then, will your training be complete. This, trainees, is your Last Chance.”
As a screen on the podium begins to feed the announcer a list of names, I twist around in my seat to see, one last time, the brilliant greens, blues, grays and browns of the eyes of those around me. The announcer has not been embellishing his statistics. Most of these two hundred people, well over half, will never again see the lights of the city, nor the faces of their friends around them, nor, truthfully, their own staring back at them in the mirror. When they succumb to the coercion of the Governors, like so many thousands of Plenties before them, the innumerable hues of their eyes will turn to the same dull pink as their predecessors.
Every year up until now, we have viewed on screens provided only once yearly by the government the procession of this very event, never gathering in person but witnessing live through some magic known only to those in power the concession of hundreds to becoming Plenties. As one after another they were led away to be blinded, I used to sit in silence with a false smile plastered across my face, my best friend Henrick by my side, and inwardly mourn the fact that these people couldn’t resist the temptations of abundance and plenty set before them by the Governors. Now I catch Henrick’s eye, ten or twelve rows back, and he sends me a shy smile in response that effortlessly crosses over the heads of our companions. As those around us begin to cheer vociferously for the first few new Plenties, I find strength in even that tiny exchange. I won’t be the only one resisting today.
Still, as the rows before me slowly erode away, a sense of impending doom comes with the loss of the only remaining physical boundary that separates me from the Governors. When at last the row immediately before mine has filed up to the stage, each individual filtering into their new respective life, my heart begins to pound. At first, there were years protecting us from the wrath of the government. At eleven, twelve, thirteen I knew I still had time, that my age would buy me safety until the day came when I could no longer excuse my choice to maintain my sight as a product of the innocence and selfishness of youth. Then, in the dwindling hours before the ceremony today, I found some consolation in the knowledge that I would not be the first to decide, that some pocket of people stood as a buffer between my name and the announcer’s lips. Now, even that is gone and before I have a chance to catch my breath against the adrenaline driving my heart, I hear the words that knock the wind right back out of me.
“Io Mira.”
Every muscle of my body trembles, ignoring the signals from my brain in favor of instinctual self-direction. My legs would much prefer to run right now, my arms to grip the edges of the chairs in front of me to keep this inevitable fate at bay. So strong is this desire, I stumble over several of the unsecured seats on my way out of the row, producing a racket so abrasive against the abrupt and culturally mandated silence it shocks me into a sort of numbness. At the very least it lessens the urge to run.
I know that a good few members of the crowd are expecting something big from me, a grand masquerade of rebellion to invoke the fury of the government and give heart to my fellow future Optics, but now that the moment has come I’m hardly sure I have the strength to speak, much less revolt. I’m half surprised the announcer has even bothered to call my name. In the last few years I’ve been the motivation for many of the government’s restructured disciplinary policies – curfews and roll call and the like – and because of that reputation, I’m supposed to make history right now, but there’s one problem. I’m too scared to think of how.
Another thought burrows its way into my mind, unprecedented and unwelcome but nonetheless close at hand. What if I do obey? W
hat if I, for once in my life, choose not to rebel? Natural compliance may not run in my blood, but that doesn’t leave me without a choice. I have no obligations, no promises to keep. Who’s to say I can’t simply walk up on that stage and declare, head held high, that I’m done fighting the government, that I’m ready to become a Plenty? What other motivation do I need than my own contentedness, anyway? The choice has gone from one between blindness and servitude to one of happiness or freedom. Happiness is beginning to look more and more attractive.
But as the stairs of the stage seem to approach me of their own accord, each step brings into my range of vision a dazzling new array of detail and clarity. Every grain of the floor, every loose and twisting fiber, the way the shadows and pockets reflect the light as I move, shimmering the way a patch of hot air might as it rises to meet the ceiling. There’s too much to see.
The passing of a distant monorail, or maybe the closing of a hidden door, creates a tiny wave of air that brings to life one of the banners strung high above. It dances with the generous burst of energy for a few seconds, celebrating the motion in which it rarely gets to partake before falling back asleep in the absence of a breeze. I stop at the foot of the stairs, heart pounding so powerfully I can see the pressure distorting my peripheral vision with each beat.
How can I give this up? How can I give up the ability to be aware of that which all other senses fail to show me? A fluttering banner, an approaching friend, the twinkle of light as it leaps across a surface of water, the ability to know what or who is around me without having to pause and listen. What could be worth losing that freedom?
“Io Mira, if you refuse to make this choice yourself the decision will be made for you.” The announcer looks right at me, close enough that I can hear both his natural voice and the slight echo in the microphone’s reiteration. He’s making sure to publicize our every interaction, hoping, I know, that I will mistakenly humiliate myself in some distasteful choice of words. The Governors are at the mercy of my intelligence, or lack thereof, and very abruptly I recognize just how much power I have come to possess. It’s power I don’t want, power I would never ever strive to attain, but now that it’s upon me I can think of no way to discard it without sacrificing some increment of the values that make me who I am. I have no choice but to accept it, and to me, at the culmination of all these years of striving for whatever increment of control I could gain for my life, that is very, very funny.
The announcer frowns smugly and aversively at the giggles threatening to shatter my solemnity, the expression on his face that which one might expect had he just accidentally ingested too large a mouthful of our usual white mush. His eyes return fleetingly to some indiscernible point over the heads of the crowd, searching for the guidance of a superior hidden in the distant white wall. He nods in a gesture of acknowledgment too subtle for any but me and those immediately surrounding us to notice, and proceeds pompously.
“What is your decision?”
“Let me ask you a question, sir,” I demand through my snickering. As it always has when it comes to authority figures, his discomfort at my command fuels my obstinacy. I’m beginning to savor every moment of this. “How would you rate my comportment these last ten years or so? Would you say I was acquiescent, or dissident? To put it in terms you might understand, was I a good kid or bad kid?”
Reluctant to play into my whim, the announcer searches the far side of the room for direction once again, only conceding to respond at the approval of those hierarchically above him. “I don’t think there’s a single person in this room who doesn’t already know the answer to that question.”
I nod and continue, “So it’s agreed that I don’t have a history of supporting the government. I believe it’s also agreed that the Governors, though they maintain a premise of objectivity, are actually quite biased when it comes to their predilection for citizens’ selections between sight and blindness. Am I correct?”
A faint murmur, either of approval or forewarning, is beginning to rise from the remaining trainees. I’m breaking the rules now, speaking words I shouldn’t know, making claims I have little right to make, and asking questions I shouldn’t ask of people to whom I’m not supposed to speak unless spoken to. But they can’t do anything to me in front of all these witnesses, not unless they accept that they’ll be chipping away at their own carefully assembled reputation and certainly not unless they’re willing to risk alienating those who have declared themselves, officially or not, my allies.
The announcer clears his throat and pulls at the collar of his shirt. He is losing his credibility in the face of a fourteen-year-old girl with an attitude problem, but he can’t make the assertions I know he wants to make without the approval of his supervisors, who seem to have suddenly grown silent in the face of a situation for which they simply don’t want to be stuck with the liability.
“We have certain preferences, if that’s what you mean, but I don’t think anyone would seek to challenge our system as it stands. It is a very fair arrangement.”
“No one’s doubting the justice of your reputable and iniquitous hierarchy, sir, but you can’t deny that the government is unequivocally partial to its Plenties. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not persecuting you. In all honesty, I agree entirely with where the Governors stand. It’s always easier to like someone you have complete control over. Freedom is extremely dangerous to the stability of our community. Still, it surprises me that you even have to ask what my decision is. Work with me in this. The Governors want me to become a Plenty, and I rarely, if ever, do what the Governors want. That means…”
Dumbstruck and apparently at loss for all confidence independent of direct orders, he stares openly and silently at me.
“No?” I continue, “You still don’t get it? Fine. I’ll lay it out for you. I will never give up my sight to you. I choose to be an Optic.”
An isolated rhythm of applause, no more than a solitary string of single beats, bursts out of the tension in the audience, accompanied by a familiar voice roaring, “Go, Io!” Of the hundred or so remaining trainees, Henrick is alone in having broken the silence and taken to his feet, a burst of auburn hair and a ruddy face in the crowd. It’s an uncharacteristically bold demonstration on his part, and I grin widely in his direction as a man and a woman, one government guard and one administrative Governor, lead me forcefully away. I may not have made history today, but at least someone is happy.
Off the opposite end of the stage and down a stairwell into the bowels of the city the two Governors lead me. We’re walking down some sort of tubular tunnel, almost too dark for my eyes to pick out the texture of the wall, but I can tell that it’s no longer the smooth homogeneity of the government’s mandated décor. The passageways and corridors of the city are infinitely complex, but years of clandestine midnight exploration have given Henrick and me an unmatchable understanding of even the most esoteric layers. This, though, is a path I’ve never tread before. A spike of pride and excitement bolsters the smile on my face and lifts my spirits to unprecedented heights. My defiant words have earned me double the security, double the attention, but none of the consequences. Even if I must now be confined to a life of servitude, there will be, I know, opportunities to inject adventure and intrigue into the coming years. To be an Optic is to be free, and they are never going to control me again.
Then a light flashes, a blindingly bright white light, and the world falls into shadow.
I can’t see.
In the Blackness
“Io. Io, wake up. If you won’t open your eyes we’ll open them for you, and I can’t guarantee it won’t hurt.”
Before my eyelids even part ways, I know that something is wrong, so incredibly wrong that it breaks my will almost immediately. My life isn’t defined by the constant search for opportunities for subversion anymore, but instead by a sense of betrayal that rings to the deepest corners of my heart and mind. The only thing I am capable of doing against this panic and desolation is to pull my knees up
to my chest and retreat as far back from reality as I can, and trust me, I can get pretty far. Because even though my eyes are open, there’s nothing to see. Nothing but thick, pressing, infinite blackness.
“What did you do to me?”
“Stop whining,” a voice answers from beside me, not so much cold as terrifyingly neutral, not unkind but neither caring.
I try to infuse it with as much strength as I can, but my own voice slips out thin and weak. Once upon a time, my words and my tone were bigger, stronger, more powerful than my appearance. Now, to strive for eloquence seems tedious and useless. In the context of mischief, it used to buy me credibility with people twice my size and age, but in this emptiness it counts for nothing. “I didn’t choose this. I want to see. Please. I don’t want to be a Plenty.”
“You’re not blind. You’re just in a dark room. Your visual cortex needs time to recover from the trauma. If we expose you to light too quickly, the chip will be destroyed by the strength of the electromagnetic signals.”
I turn my back to the voice, rocking slightly to ward off fear and nausea. “The chip?”
“Congratulations, Io Mira. Your independence and quality of vision have qualified you to become a government Optic. A chip has been inserted into your brain to allow your Super-Plenty the privilege of vicarious sight. In addition to your own, your eyes will also be subject to the command of your Super-Plenty’s mind, so long as you remain within range of the signal. While you are recovering here, you will undergo additional training and testing to ensure everything is functioning properly. Within the week, you will be able to commence your work as an Optic, as you chose at the presentation of the Last Chance.”
“But what if I don’t want to be a government Optic? What if I just want to be a regular one?”
Be Thou My Vision (The Population Series) Page 1
