“Well, don’t worry. They’ve pardoned you from working the rest of the day, so you can catch up on sleep the whole afternoon.”
My heart skips a beat. “What? What do you mean? Why would they pardon me?”
“Io, you fainted. You couldn’t possibly work anymore today,” he reproves, sternly, but not unkindly.
“Optics always work after they faint, Henrick. The Governors don’t care, as long as we can stay conscious long enough to clean the toilet.”
“Well, not this time,” he replies, still entirely confident. “I think you really scared them. Apparently one of the guards actually carried you here, on government orders.”
My face turns pink at the thought of that whole cafeteria seeing me in such a state. Even though I don’t know half of them, I’ll certainly see them again. I can only hope that this isn’t the most interesting thing that happened today, to spare me being the gossip of the whole city, but I already fear that it was an unfortunately dull day.
“Wait, Henrick.” A new concern abruptly comes to mind, a fear that began to materialize earlier but got pushed to the wayside by my own confusion. “If I’m supposed to sleep all day, who’s going to take care of Ruth and James?”
He pats my shoulder understandingly and I force myself not to be irritated by the condescension in the gesture. “You don’t need to worry, Io. It’s all taken care of. Another Optic, Mary – that really tiny blonde girl from our year – is going to check in on them and explain the whole situation. You can tell them more about it tomorrow morning.”
I bolt upright in terror and Henrick immediately forces me back down.
“You need to rest, Io. Even the medics aren’t releasing you, and when a Governor is telling you not to work, it means you really shouldn’t be working. Take advantage of this to let your body catch up.”
“No, Henrick, you don’t understand,” I continue frantically, now actively fighting him off, though it’s a futile effort in my pathetic state. “I need to take care of Ruth and James.”
He watches me a little too sympathetically. “I told you, Io. Mary is taking care of them. Don’t you remember Mary? She was in our food preparation class a few years ago. She’s a good Optic. They’ll be fine.”
“No,” I stress, frustrated at my incapacity in comparison to his strength. What has this kid been eating? I grab his arm desperately, trying to use it to pull myself up. “It has to be me, Henrick. It’s really important.”
A lock clicks shut and my stomach drops when I realize that someone else has been standing in the doorway.
“Why is it so important, Io?” a familiar voice inquires, in a tone that would be innocently curious if not for its owner.
In my bewilderment upon recognition of the man who just walked in, I don’t think to filter my words as an irreverent question slips through my lips.
“Why are you here?”
Mack smiles wryly, dismissing my insolence with the expression alone. But he concedes to offer at least an answer, and in a voice that perfectly complements the look on his face, replies, “I came to make sure you’re all right. It’s very concerning to the government when a citizen falls ill, especially one of our most valuable Optics. Now, please enlighten me as to why you’re so concerned that your Plenties are cared for. Henrick is right to assure you that they’re in good hands. Why is it so important that it be you?”
I swallow and take a deep breath, worn down by his unwavering gaze. Perhaps for lack of fuel, my brain can’t seem to produce a believable lie, and I have to force myself not to look away as I flounder for an adequate response. Not even five seconds have passed, though, when Henrick comes to my rescue.
“With all respect, sir, Io has always had a particularly strong bond with Ruth and James, and she’s not quite herself right now. I think maybe the stress of the day has made her a bit delirious, and she’s having trouble understanding that Ruth and James will be okay without her there.”
He casts me that same glance of sympathy, but I can see masked in it an apology for his deprecating words. The gesture, though appreciated, is unnecessary. Belittlement is the least of my problems right now.
“Is that so, Io?” Mack steps closer and I catch myself eyeing him warily, defensively, as I nod in hesitant agreement with Henrick’s justification.
Henrick abandons his chair as Mack comes beside us. At first I think it’s a fearful offering to a superior, but then Henrick sits down on the bed beside me, almost shielding me from Mack. I’ve told Henrick all about him, and he knows what this man is capable of when infuriated. I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for Henrick’s intuition, however infrequent, in my life.
“I’m sure you’ve already talked to the medics about this, but I’d like to hear it from you myself. You’re not the only Optic who has fallen into spells of fainting recently, and I’d be interested to know if you have any theories as to their cause. It’s certainly not safe to have Optics passing out while working.”
An inadvertent tremble runs through my hands and I pull them under the sheet to hide it. I don’t want Mack to see that his abrupt interrogation is hitting nerves. My voice, too, grows tremulous in response, and it’s only by pure luck that my condition conveniently explains it away.
“I don’t know,” I lie, in part to hide the truth, and in part to see if he might offer up his own logic, a rare opportunity to gauge the degree of ignorance of the government.
He nods understandingly, but his eyes narrow. “But you must have some idea. You and I both know that trends like this don’t occur without reason.”
I don’t know what he’s trying to weasel out of me, and that’s what frightens me the most. I can’t avoid the wrong answer if I don’t know it. Could he really just be trying to provoke me to something as simple as admitting ingratitude?
“You’re intelligent, Io,” he presses. “I don’t believe that you haven’t noticed anything. We know that Optics talk amongst themselves. The government cannot resolve the situation if we don’t know what’s causing it. There must be something that’s come up in conversation.”
My mind jumps immediately to the meetings, but I try not to let the comprehension register on my face. I missed the last one, I tell myself, struggling to turn a lie to truth. They may have given up on questioning the rations, now that weeks have passed and the freefalling decline in portion size has finally slowed to relative stability. How am I to know that some other concern hasn’t arisen? Maybe they aren’t talking about food at all. I fight against an overwhelming sense that I have something to hide, sure that if he recognizes it, Mack will never back down until I’ve spilled everything out before him. I don’t know, I repeat in my mind. There’s a certain universal safety in a simple, I don’t know.
“I don’t know.”
Safety, maybe, but not appeasement. Mack won’t accept nothing for an answer. Instead of admitting defeat, he redoubles his efforts, narrowing his focus until the inquiry becomes terrifyingly personal. With that same knowing smirk, he asks, “Well then what about you, Io? You certainly know your own life. What do you think may have ended you up in the medical building?”
I’m certain he can read my mind as images of torn towels, split portions and Daniel’s healing injuries flash across my brain. I’ve been so careful, there’s no way he could know.
Unless I’m too late.
When I tense beside him with every intention of sitting up, Henrick takes hold of my shoulder again, feigning reassurance while actually restraining me. I don’t fight. There’s little I can do with Mack in the room anyway, but I can’t stop the panic flooding through me at the thought of Mary stumbling upon Daniel in the closet. Ten minutes ago, I worried that I wouldn’t be back in time to catch her, but now, my fear is that it’s already too late.
My violent reaction, however well-contained by Henrick, doesn’t escape Mack’s notice, and he watches me appraisingly through downcast eyes. “Is something the matter, Io? You know, if we can’t figure out what’s causing
your troubles, we may have to consider alternative solutions. The presentation of the Last Chance is poorly named, I always thought. The government never stops inviting its Optics to become Plenties, regardless of age.”
A primal fear rears up inside of me with his insinuation, a fear that has firmly kept me on the path to becoming an Optic since I was old enough to understand the sacrifice that Plentitude requires. Made more powerful than ever because of my exhaustion, the horror forces me to clench my jaw to fight back tears, and even so a few manage to redden my eyes.
Mack takes to his feet once again, apparently satisfied at the terror he has instilled in me. “Clearly you’re in no fit state to answer these questions, Io, much less to return to work today. The medics will never allow it. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll be feeling better. Henrick, I’m going to lock the door behind me to make sure she isn’t tempted to leave. You’re free to stay the afternoon. Just knock when you’re ready to go and one of the medics will come let you out.”
With little other valediction, he exits the room and I swallow my tears back, hoping Henrick won’t question them. But I should know better.
“Are you okay, Io? You shouldn’t listen to him. He’s just trying to make you feel like you’ve broken the rules.” He lowers his voice to a whisper as he continues, “Worrying about Ruth and James is not a crime. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“But Henrick.” I can almost see my wild eyes reflecting in his, and I fight to make my words even quieter. An inverse relationship between volume and significance. “I have done something wrong.”
He leans back, perturbed, and I have to pull him closer so I can whisper frantically in his ear.
“I have a Neither in the closet.”
Childhood Relived
Henrick recoils as though my words have caused him physical pain.
“What do you mean a –?”
“Shhh,” I cut him off and glance toward the door, expecting to see a pair of feet casting a shadow in the gap between its bottom edge and the floor, matched to a pair of ears listening carefully to our every word.
He leans in again, barely even mouthing his question. He understands well enough that he could get in as much trouble as me just for being privy to my secret. “What do you mean a Neither?”
The thought that Mack might already know about Daniel terrifies me to no end, but until I’m certain, I can’t risk taking chances. Word choice is crucial, and in fear of picking the wrong ones, I can’t seem to finish even a sentence. “I – he was...I couldn’t just…”
“You mean to tell me that there is a person in the linen closet of Ruth and James’ house?” Henrick wonders, incredulous. I’m not even entirely certain he believes me. He might very well have convinced himself that I’m delirious.
I nod weakly.
“Are Ruth and James okay with…that?” He trails off as his eyes grow huge, filling my vision he’s so close. His next words are little more than a breath. “They don’t know…”
I don’t respond, just stare hard at him, willing him to understand the guilt I feel at keeping something so huge from them, the terror that floods my veins every time I imagine the Governors coming to interrogate them about my crime.
“Io…Mary.”
Bile rises in my throat. “I know. That’s why it has to be me there.” I look to him earnestly, imploringly. “I need to get out of here.”
Henrick’s gaze leaves mine in favor of the more innocuous ground; inanimate objects don’t deviously plead for help. He keeps his mouth shut – probably a wise choice, because the moment he offers a solution, he’ll be as much a criminal as I am.
So instead of forcing him, I swing my feet off the opposite side of the bed from where he’s sitting. Now aware of the circumstances, Henrick doesn’t try to stop me, but I can see the conflict cycling through behind his eyes. He’s as against me leaving the room as the Governors, if certainly with purer motives. Still, the potential consequences of my staying are unthinkable in comparison. I see it in his face when he comes to the same conclusion, a hint of boyish mischief that puts a rare, impish smirk on his lips and a gleam in his eye.
I haven’t seen that expression in years. The time has come to relive our childhood.
As though in silent agreement with my unspoken observation, Henrick walks over to a space in the wall similar to the gap present in every Plenty’s kitchen: the little glass tube through which food can be sent zooming to attention.
He pauses, assessing the completeness of the silence around us and, apparently satisfied, raises his eyebrows expectantly.
“Do you remember what we discovered the day before the Last Chance?” he questions meaningfully.
I feel a smile tugging at my lips and give fully into it, coming to stand by his side. “Of course.”
He reaches forward and presses on the square of wall lying directly behind the tube, testing its give. We learned long ago that the entire tube system runs with a tunnel behind it, for purposes of accessibility in the event of a clog in the line. At the points where the tube enters into a home or building, the back section of wall is outfitted as an upward swinging panel held only by a small latch, allowing maintenance to be performed with maximum efficiency by whatever poor Optic has been assigned the job. It’s an ideal emergency exit, but having discovered it just a day before becoming official Optics ourselves, we had only one glorious opportunity to put the route to good use. This escapade has been a long time coming.
With a nod of approval, Henrick steps back, eyeing the thirty centimeters or so between the tube and the base of the space below it analytically. For the guards, or any member of the government really, to squeeze into such a space would be unimaginable, but one benefit of being the size of the Governors’ children is that we can fit into places others can’t. Henrick opens his hand to me and I take it readily, admittedly more excited than I should be.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” I agree, and he begins the countdown in a harsh whisper.
“Three, two, ONE!”
In unison we launch ourselves toward the space, careful to avoid the glass above us and the rough edge below. Upon contact, the latch snaps immediately, sending the panel arcing up to smack against the wall above it. We sail as one into the tunnel beyond, expecting to land in a roll in the wide space. But what I quickly realize, even as my hands come up in instinct to protect my face, is that the service tunnels for the tubes in the Governors’ City are not nearly as wide as those of the quadrants. In fact, the wall sits only a meter or less away from its opposite, and rushes forward to greet me with about as much fervor as did Nellie this morning. Henrick and I land simultaneously in a jumbled mess on the floor as we collide with it.
By the time we find our legs again, rubbing bruised joints and throbbing heads, the panel has closed sharply behind us, half its latch swinging pitifully from the impact and the other half scattered across the floor. Perhaps not the most graceful or subtle method, but at least we’re out. I can only hope that no one heard us as we begin to work our way down the tunnel, guided by mental maps we spent over a decade of misbehavior amassing.
The coarse passageway, illuminated only by a string of bare light bulbs swinging high above our heads, continues on for another ten meters before the glass tube disappears into the wall, likely accessible from a different hallway whose entrance lies elsewhere. Somewhere on the far end of our tunnel, there will be a regular door serving as the passageway’s link to the city, but, not being familiar with this particular route, we can’t risk accidentally turning up in the middle of the president’s conference room or Mr. Watson’s kitchen.
We would be at a dead end if not for a simple, unassuming ventilation grate just barely visible at its perch near the ceiling above us, well out of our reach. But it isn’t an issue. We may not be tall, but we are certainly resourceful. Without thinking, almost on the edge of instinct, I slip off my thin, cloth shoes and spread my hands and feet along either wall running beside us, pushing on them
as hard as I can to suspend myself in the air a few inches off the floor. It takes me a few awkward lunges and close calls to establish a rhythm, but old habit eventually kicks in and carries me to the top. Henrick wedges himself into the space just behind me, and when he, too, has completed the ascent, he glues himself in with his legs alone and works the grate open slowly, careful not to let it plunge to the floor below. The panel slamming shut was noise enough without any added clamor.
Once we’re in the ventilation duct, with the grate fixed back in place behind us, we’re in our element. Well-versed in the acrobatics of maneuvering these narrow passageways, we effortlessly slide ourselves along the haphazard construction. In certain areas of the city, the air ducts, subterranean tunnels and Optic dormitories among them, the pristine white-washed walls of the city, neglected for some time if they were ever there to begin, are chipped away to reveal a complex, discontinuous mixture of surfaces below. The air ducts are coarse, tinted a strange orange-red, while the derelict walls of the dormitories are stripped down in sections to reveal a porous sort of gray below. This same gloomy shade makes its appearance throughout the city’s tunnels, including the one we just climbed out of.
But once the tunnels run below the level of the atrium, or too deep into the Mass in any given direction, the patterns and textures are as varied as those appearing in the Plenty’s homes. Down there in the darkness one can just discern dull burgundy rectangles beside rough, splintering patches of deep, dark brown. It must be some natural heterogeneity of the Mass itself that creates this distinction, and the degree to which it is disguised serves as a valuable indicator of the utility of the space. The uglier it is, the less of a chance anyone goes down there.
Snippets of voices, trickles of running water, and slamming doors drift through each opening we pass by in our progress, until our path leads us into a controlled slide down a slope that carries us far below the level at which we started. Another grate opens into a dark, sticky passage lined with pipes carrying water of questionable sanitation, and without a source of light we stumble through, soaked in spotty patches by miniscule leaks sprung in the pipes.
Be Thou My Vision (The Population Series) Page 10
