Rationalizing that in my mind did not take me long. Though their lack of resistance makes them weak in my eyes, their instinct for self-preservation gains the Plenties back some status.
Then, there are the Super-Plenties. The noble, courageous, self-sacrificing Super-Plenties. When the Governors’ propaganda turns inward, the same arguments transform under the new context. For us, it offers a calm, quiet, stable life where, because you have made yourself easier to control, the Governors don’t view you as a threat. For them, it is a chance to glorify your family’s name, to prove to your contemporaries that your love for your world is greater than your love for the selfish luxury of sight. The Governors see them as providing an indispensable example to conceited and rebellious Optics (such as myself), and therefore rewards them by recouping some small version of the visual world they have lost. They take those Optics (those conceited and rebellious Optics) who have, through actions or words, declared themselves eternally opposed to becoming Plenties and put a chip in their brain, which connects by some invisible signal to the Super-Plenty’s chip and allows them to see through a surrogate pair of eyes, their Optic’s eyes. It removes from those Optics the freedom that has always been enjoyed by all human beings who have their sight, to turn their gaze in a given space wherever interest may draw them. There is nowhere in the world that your feet and status allow you to go that your eyes cannot also follow.
Yet once there is another person sharing your exact perspective, a master who can direct you where to look whenever you are close enough for the signal to cross the space between your brains, you have no freedom. Once upon a time, for about a minute, I had no freedom. But Ruth made a promise to me, in exchange for a promise I made to her, and we’ve both kept our word since. For six years now, I’ve protected James from the government – though given that he’s a Plenty, my side of the deal isn’t all that hard to uphold – and my eyes have been my own.
There is a problem, though. The moment Ruth conveyed to me, even without words, that she would leave my vision to my own command instead of utilizing the chip, we entered into a pact, if entirely harmless, of conspiracy. From that point on she was ungrateful for not taking advantage of the technology that the Governors so graciously provided her, and I was at fault for permitting it to happen. There’s only one sin a Plenty can commit in the eyes of the government: ingratitude. If they find out, however, only one of us will take the fall. The Governors are so concerned about the images they project, they will rarely, if ever, punish a Plenty, and certainly not a Super-Plenty.
Were the Governors to learn of the secret covenant between Ruth and me, I don’t exactly know what would happen, but I know what wouldn’t. I would never escape. If there is one thing that you need to know about the government, it is this.
They do not, under any circumstances, allow anyone to escape.
But that doesn’t mean that no one ever has.
My Favorite People
The examiner points to a scratch on Ruth’s arm, his eyes burning through me in expectation. The words don’t need to be spoken. They are never spoken.
I type my answer quickly and the blocky gray letters scroll across a tiny screen he holds in his hand, recorded in the depths of the little machine as they pass. He scans them, nods, and moves on. The examiner turns Ruth’s chair so that I can see her face. Under the brilliant overhead lamps of the gray-walled examination room, she looks papery, stretched and pockmarked, somehow pale despite the brown hue of her skin. Her simple attire only exaggerates the frailty of her condition. The examiner records all injuries, however slight, and I sit just outside the room, prepared to explain them away to the best of my ability. And my best must be perfect, because failure to produce an adequate explanation for even a single paper cut is swiftly flagged as potential abuse, and no Optic ever wants to find themselves with that on their record.
The examiner shines a concentrated light into each of Ruth’s erubescent eyes. She didn’t sleep well last night, never really does, so today the bloodshot white nearly matches the usual pink of her irises. At meeting another of his glances, I grant him my explanation in writing. Another nod and he completes the examination, checking for swollen glands, loose teeth, bulging tonsils – anything and everything that could be viewed as a threat to Ruth’s wellbeing. And when he is finished, she gets up and walks away, expertly and nonchalantly guiding herself along the walls, unashamed despite the inherent condescension of these check-ups. With so little memory of her life before, it comes as no surprise that she’s forgotten to feel violated or exposed.
There comes a discourteous knock at the window and I jump at the proximity of the examiner’s face to my own. Patience was never a part of his job description; that much he has made clear. To this weekly interruption of my thoughts, I always have the same response.
“James!”
Three years ago, a set of enthusiastic feet would have come pattering into the room at the sound of that name. These days, a gangly, skinny pair of legs strides with presumptuous superiority almost anywhere they go. To think that, just a month ago, I was confined under the same label as this little twerp – teenager – is incomprehensible to me. Then again, nineteen is a far cry from thirteen. Twenty is even farther.
“James! Get your butt over here. Now!”
I turn as I shout, carefully hiding my face from the view of the examiner. If the window wasn’t soundproof, I would never risk using such an impatient tone – Optics are never to be rude to Plenties – but as it stands, I figure I’m free to behave as I choose. My unmannerly summons pays off as James drags himself through the door, feet shuffling slowly along the floor in that blatant disrespect reserved for the mannerisms of the young. I suppose it’s better than the arrogance. With a rebellious edge in his voice, he mutters, “I’m telling him you said that,” and makes his way through the door to my right.
I watch the words as they form in his mouth, those first few familiar shapes of greeting to which the examiner responds accordingly, and then a few more that surpass my ability to interpret. Their faces are equally unreadable as James continues in some sort of extensive explanation, an epitome of youthfulness flitting across his features as he exploits the fact that he is, in the examiner’s eyes, just a child. Yet the scolding I’m expecting never comes, and as the examination begins I contemplate with satisfaction what little iota of loyalty James has left for me. Even if he can be an insolent little brat, he hasn’t completely forgotten the adoration he once had for me when he was younger. With that in mind, the rest of the session passes effortlessly and uneventfully.
Just before he leaves, the examiner comes up to me, face set in stone. He stares me down appraisingly before gravely declaring, “I could report you for Ruth’s sleeping problems, but I’m feeling forgiving today. She doesn’t seem particularly unhappy yet, but because she’s a government Plenty, it cannot be allowed to progress any farther. I’m going to come back after lunch with sleeping pills for her. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” For once, my response is laced with gratitude. Ruth’s insomnia has had me worried for weeks now, a hint of apprehension that rides the edges of my mind every time I see her. She refuses to acknowledge even the existence of a problem, but I can see how it wears her down more and more every day.
With a final curt nod, the examiner makes briskly for the door, brushing me out of his way like I’m nothing more than a torn piece of paper. Any sense of affection I may have felt for him slips away as quickly as water down a drain. His concern for her is probably just to save his own butt, anyway.
“Io, dear.” Ruth appears at my shoulder as I turn into the hallway. Her shaking hand finds my arm and takes hold, and a tiny corner of doubt in my mind suspects that she might be using me as support. “I haven’t got much of an appetite today. I’m going to skip lunch, I think, but please give mine to James. A growing boy like him needs more food than the government’s rations could ever provide.”
“You need to eat something, Ruth,�
� I protest, though I’m certain before the words leave my mouth that this is an argument I can’t win. For weeks now, Ruth’s been forgoing at least one meal a day, choosing to rest instead to make up for the sleep she misses at night. The change of habit coincided almost perfectly with a recent cut in rations, one which started with the Optics and slowly trickled upward until it reached even the privileged Super-Plenties. I begged her not to worry herself about it, bombarding her with every reassurance I could think of to convince her that I would never allow James to be without food, that I would do everything in my power to ensure their well-being even to the point of confronting the Governors myself if that’s what it came to. But for every encouragement I offered, she simply responded the same way.
I trust you, Io. I trust you with our lives, and I want you to trust me too. If I’m hungry, I will eat. And if I’m not, why let the food go to waste? Promise me you won’t worry, Io.
I made the promise, but it was a bold-faced lie, and I’m sure she could hear it in my voice. Ruth can hear everything in everyone’s voice, and to this day I have never successfully lied to her. Neither has James, but that hasn’t kept either of us from trying, sometimes repeatedly and insistently.
“Are you worrying about me, Io?”
“No,” I answer adamantly.
“Well, it’s very nice of you to be concerned, but remember what I told you.” She pats me on the arm and works her way down the hall effortlessly.
“I’ll see you this afternoon, Io!” she calls behind her, and I’m struck with the sentiment that Ruth may very well be my favorite person in the entire city. She has certainly earned the title, though I’m not sure that’s not saying much when I haven’t met most of the people and another three hundred are Governors.
When Ruth is safely in her room, I stick my head into James’. He sits on the bed staring straight ahead, his fingers nimbly finding their way across the constituents of a three dimensional puzzle. When finished, it will mimic the form of some ordinary object, the surface completely smooth once the inside is all locked together. The walls are coated with a sort of rounded, spikey texture, the latest in a series of strange designs that I’ve been told young Plenties have an affinity for, and music blasts from a little apparatus beside him. It’s a government-produced piece, as all of them are, but the source of these sounds, what devices could have produced them, is unknown to me or anyone else, besides, maybe, the Governors themselves. The rumor is that they are ancient works, created in the early days of the city when it was first tunneled out of the Mass, and that the mechanisms used to produce them are long obsolete. Whatever its’ origin, the music has never suited my taste, and more than once I’ve forced James to turn down the volume. But today I don’t challenge him; he doesn’t seem in the mood for it.
“You hungry?”
He turns toward my voice, but gives no clear intention of answering. The question probably wasn’t worth asking in the first place.
“Do you want to eat in here, or –?”
“In here,” he interjects abruptly.
“Okay. Be right back.”
I head for the kitchen and the resonance of the music swells behind me. At least he had the good sense to turn it down while I was in the room.
In the back of the kitchen, a meter wide and half-meter tall inset just beside the sink houses a glass tube that runs from one side to the other. The tube sits empty, awaiting the command that will bring a cylinder of food flying through like a tiny monorail. This isn’t the pale, slimy, chunky, flavorless paste to which the Optics subject their taste buds twice daily, though the appearance is not much different at first glance. Inside each individual tube, though all appear identical, will be two servings of a uniform white substance of some specific flavor, texture and scent. To me, this has always been unnerving – that these differences don’t somehow manifest themselves in appearance – but most Optics view the food as the tastier, more appetizing alternative to whatever it is we eat, and don’t understand my distaste. Regardless, it isn’t mine to ingest anyway, and the Plenties, unable to perceive the color, always seem more than content with the quality of their meals.
I scan my thumb, tattooed with a small eye as all Optics’ are, and press a button beside the inset twice, for two servings. A pair of half-full bottles immediately appear in the tube in front of me, and I jump, startled. They’re always faster than I think they’re going to be. A little door in the tube’s shell relinquishes them to my grasp, and I hold them in my hand for a moment, considering their weight.
Once upon a time, just a few months ago, these cylinders would have come through completely full, and a second set if you ordered them, no questions asked. Now, the portions are smaller even the first time around, and a second request goes unanswered. We are forbidden, as we always have been, to make note of such a shortage, and if our Plenties begin to inquire, we are expected to find some explanation to keep them content. Ruth has never brought the issue to light, and neither has James (though that may be Ruth’s doing as well), but I’ve heard horror stories from other Optics. Plenties who grow angry, who accuse their Optic of stealing the food and report them for it, and that the Governors, though fully knowledgeable about the true cause for the deficiency, turn a blind eye and penalize the Optic anyway. Stories of Optics who disappear into the depths of the Governors’ City and reappear days later, a different person entirely. Or worse, Optics who never do reappear, and are quickly replaced by a recent graduate as though nothing ever happened. It’s a hard job to discern between the truthful accounts of concerned friends and fanciful fabrications born of fearful gossip or in retaliation against the government’s propaganda. What I do know is that I am lucky to have the Plenties I have, and I know it well enough not to question it.
As always, a flattened side of the glass carries instructions in gray text for how to prepare the food: what needs to be heated, what must be cooked, what needs water added and which utensils it should be served with. Ten minutes of preparation, of slicing and mixing and warming, produces a plate piled high with the combination of the two servings. One half smells sort of savory, maybe even spicy, although, having never tasted it myself, I’m not entirely sure what “spicy” even is. The second might be sweeter, but its scent is so overwhelmed by the pungency of the first, it’s difficult to say. Something about it just isn’t right, and I struggle to keep my nose from wrinkling as I deliver the pair of concoctions to James.
“Do you need anything else?”
“No,” he attempts to answer, but his mouth is already full of food, and more falls off of his fork as he endeavors to stuff it further.
“Then I’m going to head out to get lunch. Try to at least keep the food off the walls, okay? I’ll be back soon.”
A muffled grunt of acknowledgement is the only response I get.
I check on Ruth one last time before leaving, opening the door just a crack to avoid waking her. I think I’ve succeeded until a small voice mutters, “See you after lunch, Io.”
The woman hears everything.
A Complex Relationship with Authority
Sometimes, I can’t help but roll my eyes. It could earn me a cold shoulder from Henrick for a week, a citation from the guard, or even a foot to the ribcage and a bloodied lip, but sometimes, I just can’t help but roll my eyes. The reason? Henrick the sycophant is at it again.
“How do you do today, Mr. Watson?” His voice turns disgustingly pleasant, his grin broad and toothy, and I’m pretty sure his eyelids give a flutter or two. Flirting with authority, I call it, though not to Henrick’s face. Even if I don’t fully approve, there are advantages to being on the government’s good side, advantages of which I will never be the beneficiary because I’m way too far gone in the other direction. The last thing I should be doing is discouraging that habit of Henrick’s which has saved my butt more times than I can count. Sometimes, he’s joking, but mostly, he’s not. So I take a deep breath and swallow my revulsion.
“Very well, thank you
. And how are you today, Henrick?” Mr. Watson, that same portly announcer who facilitates the blinding of a couple hundred teenagers annually, returns the overly formal salutation with an appreciative chuckle. The Governors find it incredibly cute when Henrick imitates their ceremonial greetings, completely unaware that at times it’s more as a comedian than a colleague. This time, even I’m hard-pressed to tell which it is, but I’ve never been one to give Henrick the benefit of the doubt. I’ve known him for too long.
“Fine, sir,” Henrick responds enthusiastically. “I just have a quick question to ask you, if that’s all right?”
“Sure, sure,” Mr. Watson agrees readily, but he continues to move as quickly through the crowd as his stubby little legs will carry him, leaving Henrick to stumble along by his side while I trail behind, intent on not being noticed. My presence never helps these sorts of situations much.
And as I walk in silence, I can’t help but wonder what Henrick’s after today. Pardon for some error, I would guess, or a few hours of free time, or perhaps he’s just looking to maintain his good standing. What I don’t expect to hear out of his lips next is the revelation of that same observation that has been passing among the Optics for weeks now.
Be Thou My Vision (The Population Series) Page 4
