Ten Days
By Olivia Mayfield
Copyright © 2013 by Rhonda Helms
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Author’s Note
Ten Days is a reimagining of the short story “The Machine Stops” by E.M. Forster, which is in the public domain in the United States. If you haven’t read “The Machine Stops,” it’s an innovative science fiction story that haunted me for many years after I first read it as a teenager. I hope my humble take on Forster’s world does justice to his tale, which inspired me so greatly.
Dedication
To my beloved family and friends, who have never veered from encouraging me to follow my dreams. Thank you all so much.
And to my husband, who has taught me much about life and love.
Chapter 1
“If you are in need of a compassionate ear, press the yellow starred button once to reach a person specializing in sympathy.” ~ The Book of the Machine
“Cally!” My mother’s voice echoed in my pod. “You’re not napping again, are you?”
With a sigh, I rolled over and off the bed and pressed the button to send the mattress away. It folded up and retreated into the smooth brown wall. The next button flooded the room with ambient light. I should have gone into isolation for my nap, but since I hadn’t heard from her in over six months, I wasn’t expecting a call right then.
I turned on visual for the optic plate embedded in the wall, ignoring the flood of messages flashing for me on the corner of the tube, and saw Hanna’s image. Her blond hair was threaded with more gray than the last time I’d spoken with her. “I only took a short nap,” I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
“You missed my lecture.” Her representation looked serene as always, but her voice was laced with evident irritation. “If you want to learn more about the fashion ideas of the ancients, it would behoove you to attend.”
“I will,” I said softly, struggling to keep my own frustration out of my voice. Not that she paid that close of attention to it anyway. Changing the subject to a less personal topic, I said, “So, have you heard any new ideas lately?”
“Actually, I have. It was on land creatures in a lecture this morning. Something about how they may have originally come from the sea.” She scoffed. “Not that I think it’s a brilliant idea, but it is interesting nonetheless.”
“I heard an interesting idea too,” I suddenly offered.
With this, Hanna’s voice perked up. “Really? What about?” My mother collected ideas, loved being the one to disseminate them to others. And as a member of the Committee, regardless of the quality of ideas she shared, her words were taken far more seriously than most people’s, something she took a lot of delight in.
“Well,” I said, suddenly hesitant. The idea had come from my friend Marshal, and for some reason Hanna disliked him. “I heard that back in the ages of litter, people used to keep animals in their pods. That the creature would even sleep with them sometimes.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “That’s unbelievable. Can you imagine? Ugh, these beds are uncomfortable enough to begin with—you know, I really should complain to the Committee about that. Besides, who would want a hairy beast touching you? That’s so uncivilized.”
I glanced around my empty, brown-hued pod, void of any furnishings except my chair and side table. What would it be like to have another living being in your quarters, breathing the same air, eating meals together? Face-to-face conversations were a rare, secret thrill for me, something I wouldn’t dream of admitting out loud; it was hard enough sometimes admitting that to myself.
Still, it might be nice to see Hanna, even if her pod, her colony partway across the world was exactly the same as mine. It had been so long since we’d last met, I didn’t remember much about that day except my hurt feelings afterward and that it was over seven years ago—I was only twelve.
Just as I opened my mouth to ask my mother if she’d be interested in me visiting her, she chimed in. “Well, I need to go. There’s another lecture I wish to attend on music that begins in a few minutes and then the Committee has our weekly meeting right after. Goodbye, Cally. All praise the Machine.” With that, my mother clicked off, not even waiting for me to say goodbye.
Abrupt as usual. I shoved that ungrateful thought aside. At least she’d taken the time to contact me. The rest of the waiting messages filled the screen, a cacophony of flashing lights. Most were the same, asking for ideas or opinions, wanting to share thoughts they’d had since we’d last talked, or requesting I give another lecture on poetry soon. Then I saw Marshal’s message, asking me to contact him when I get a chance.
My heart raced in anticipation and I turned on the isolation switch, shutting out the rest of the world except him. I called him back.
“Cally,” Marshal said, and I heard the smile in his voice. His representation filled my screen—pale skin, light brown hair, piercing dark green eyes. “Did you enjoy your nap?”
“It was okay,” I said, shrugging. “I forgot to shut off the voice plate before I laid down. So my mother woke me up to inform me that I made a terrible mistake by missing her newest lecture.”
He chuckled, and the warmth of the sound sent a scattering of goose bumps across my skin and tightened my lower belly. I rubbed my arms to smooth them back down, shivering a little. It was improper, uncivilized for me to feel this way about him. My mother would be horrified. He probably would be too— We are just acquaintances, after all, I told myself. It was my secret mantra, one I repeated in my head every time we talked so I didn’t give anything away.
“Cally, you appear to be cold,” the Machine interrupted us. A blanket came out of the wall and wrapped around me.
“Are you okay?” Marshal asked.
“Oh, fine, fine. I just got a little chilly,” I replied, fighting the hot flush that tried to burn its way up my throat and across my cheeks. Goodness knew the Machine might think I was getting ill.
“I heard from Tessa this morning,” he said, his voice holding a strange tone I couldn’t identify. “She said she’s been approved to become impregnated with a child any time now—assuming birth and death rates stay the same, of course.”
“That’s great.” I injected as much positivity as I could into my words. “I’m sure she must be thrilled.” I didn’t share the same urge to procreate, something she and I had discussed on and off since we were young, but I knew I might one day be encouraged to do so.
Tessa, Marshal and I had grown up in the same public nursery and were, surprisingly enough, also given pods relatively close to each other. Not that distance mattered, as all pods were similar and we had the Machine to connect us anyway, but since the three of us had been reared together, we had a stronger-than-normal bond.
A particular memory of the air-ship journey from the nursery to this colony popped into my mind. I pinched my lips together.
“What’s wrong?” Marshal asked.
“Remember when Tessa accidentally dropped her Book onto the rail while we were stepping into the air-ship to come here, and it got destroyed? She was petrified to tell anyone and swore us to secrecy.”
He shook his head. “She just knew she was going to be punished with Homelessness. I think she even cried a little.”
That sobered me up even more. When we were that age, we hadn’t known what was a bad enough crime to warrant being expunged to the surfac
e of the Earth, a punishment that meant certain death. But we did now.
“Want to…” Marshal cleared his throat. “Want to hang out later? I have a lecture to give on ancient automobiles in an hour or so, but I’m free after that.”
I tugged the blanket tighter around me, fighting back the smile threatening to overtake my face. Modulate your emotions. A long-ago lesson from one of my nursery instructors. Sophistication of our people is achieved through ideas, not sensations. “Sure. Let’s visit Kuno. I’m sure he has new ideas to share with us.”
“That sounds great. We can meet after our last meal. And don’t forget our challenge today.”
“I won’t.” I paused for a moment, wishing I had more clever things to discuss with him. But all I could think about was my slightly elevated heart rate, the flutter in my stomach at the thought of seeing him soon. The way being near him made my skin burn in a strange, intense anticipation. So I simply said, “Goodbye, Marshal. All praise the Machine.”
“All praise the Machine.” He logged off.
I leaned back in my chair, letting my head fall back and allowing the smallest of happy sighs to escape my mouth. After an indulgent moment or two, I shook it off. This ever-increasing surge of emotion regarding Marshal, of odd and inappropriate physical sensation, was starting to make me uncomfortable. Surely he was going to notice it too one day. And it would ruin our friendship once he discovered I wasn’t like him or everyone else.
What did the Book say about this situation?
I went to the table of contents and found the appropriate page. I scanned down until I spotted the correct entry:
If you find you are undergoing overwhelming emotions or barbarian passions, the Machine provides medication that aids in dulling the offensive sensory experiences, which in turn reduces the impact of said emotions or passions. To request this medication, press the square button three times. It is also recommended that you also press the star button to reach a person specializing in counseling.
I closed the book. Hanna would urge me to call for the medication. I should call for it—once the Machine noticed a pattern in how I was feeling, the medication would be summoned anyway. It wasn’t safe, not civilized to let this overrun me. And if I could control my body when I was around him, I could keep my secret.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed the square button on the console three times. There was a strange whirring noise that gave me pause. Then a mechanical arm pushed through the wall, bearing a small square patch on a tray.
“Cally, please place the patch on your lower abdomen. The medicine will absorb through your skin into your bloodstream. You will notice relief of your symptoms shortly.”
“Thank you,” I said, doing as instructed.
The arm vanished back into the wall.
And just like that, my heart rate slowed down, my senses dulling just enough to make me aware of the difference. The pulse in my lower belly faded then disappeared, like it had never existed. I could pretend I was normal again, shove aside these thoughts and feelings for Marshal and focus on what was important—being a productive adult.
I pasted on a smile and tapped into the communications system, just in time to join a lecture on the perils of ancient war.
* * *
Dinner smelled strange.
The offending scent wafted through my room. It was… I didn’t have the right word to describe it. But it seemed off. Like something had gone bad. All I knew was some innate sense told me not to eat it, even though I logically trusted that the Machine would never provide food that would harm us.
My stomach curdled in response to the odor, and I shoved the plate of artificial fruits and meat away, no longer hungry, yet grateful I’d taken the medicine earlier that was surely keeping me from having a much worse reaction. The Machine’s arm swept out and removed the meal, leaving a wisp of the aroma lingering in the air. To take my mind off the growing sense of unease, the unspoken question gnawing at the corners of my mind about what had happened to the meal, I decided to focus on preparing for today’s challenge with Marshal.
I hit the isolation switch and removed myself from contact with all others. Then I shut off connection to the Machine, plunging me into complete manual control of my pod.
A few months ago, Marshal had come to me with an idea he’d gotten from Kuno that was so original and new, we both knew it should be kept secret so as not to be labeled as uncivilized.
I began by rising from my seat and nudging it back against the wall, out of my way. Then I undressed down to my underclothes, putting my tunic and pants in a small pile on the floor. I sucked in a slow, deep breath and reached my arms as high as they would go. The gentle burn and stretch of using my own body’s muscles was still so relatively new that I made myself proceed at a leisurely pace, first working my arms then my legs.
I ran my fingers down my lower legs and touched the small edge of muscle along the sides of my calves. Marshal had been right; I was growing strong. It was foreign, scary. Exciting. Was this what our ancestors were like before the Machine, back when they had to do everything for themselves? Using the power and might of their own bodies to create and destroy all around them?
After getting the stiffness from my limbs, I started to jog in place. My heart and muscles protested at first for several minutes and despite the medicine, I could feel my pulse racing in an uneven stutter—it had taken me months to build up enough tolerance to last this long.
But there was something strangely…addictive about using my own body, despite the odd, notable scent that came from under my arms. A sheen of sweat slicked my skin, dripped down the arch of my spine and pooled under my small breasts. Hanna would be horrified. Perhaps that was part of the allure as well.
Because I knew now that I was two people: one who still tried to prove to everyone she was worth letting live, in spite of the warning signs from birth, and one who took too much pleasure in nestling secrets deep within her.
Panting breaths puffed out of my lungs. They burned from the exertion, squeezed tight. Marshal had said Kuno taught him the right way to breathe while doing these movements, so I tried to mimic it—two quick breaths in then two more out.
When I hit the fifteen-minute mark, I slowed down for a few seconds then stopped. My side didn’t ache this time. I wanted to own the sheer pleasure in this accomplishment but the medicine had dulled my emotions, numbed me a bit too much.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so rash before.
At that moment I suddenly needed it gone. I needed to feel again—this was wrong. Cursing my impulsiveness, I dug around the edges of the patch and ripped it off, sucking in a harsh breath at the flash of pain. The patches hadn’t been created for removal—at least, not by us.
The sting faded. My heart rate slowed down to normal. I quickly cleaned up and put my clothing back on.
I flipped the isolation switch off and was flooded with a barrage of waiting messages. Blinking. Blipping. Beckoning. I didn’t want to look at them right now but I knew I had to.
“Cally!” Balan, an elderly lecturer on literature, said as soon as I selected him, a frantic edge in his tone. Since my field was poetry, we sometimes did joint lectures together, though he tended to take over with his dominant personality. His bushy gray eyebrows were wide, slitting across his brow in a straight, thick line. “Thank you for answering. I’ve been trying to reach you. Did you taste the last meal? It seemed…off. What happened? Do you know? I asked at least a dozen other people, and none of them have any idea what’s going on.”
I shrugged, fighting back the swell of worry bombarding my mind. So I hadn’t been the only one to notice food issues. “I’m not sure, but I’ll ask around. Have you heard any new ideas today?”
Not that I was especially keen on hearing his—they usually repeated the same points about purity of literature and how everything should illuminate the importance of The Book of the Machine, nothing else . But it was the polite thing to do.
“Not
hing today, no.” He sighed. “It’s been a slow day and I’ve heard no useful ideas at all. You?”
A small part of me was tempted to tell him the animal story, but I knew his reaction would be the same as Hanna’s. “Nothing important,” I said. “But unfortunately I need to go now. All praise the Machine.”
“All praise the Machine,” he said, and he shut off.
I quickly breezed through the rest of the messages to make sure there was nothing urgent. All the same notes: concern over food, questions on lectures, curiosity about my schedule for the rest of the day. Then I headed to the door and cast my gaze down the long, dark tunnel.
Time to go see Marshal.
Chapter 2
“When one may start to feel alone, do not fret—companionship and interaction is nothing more than an optic screen away.” ~ The Book of the Machine
I rapped three times on Marshal’s door, our code. The door flew open, and Marshal smiled. It warmed me with its light, despite the overpowering, empty dimness of the hallway around me. But no one that I knew of except Marshal and I traveled by foot—or even left our pod on a regular basis, for that matter. Another one of our secrets.
“You ready?” he asked me.
The light from his room glowed behind him, and I could see the lines of his upper arms, defined shoulders, sharp jaw. Like me, he was changing too. It was startling how strongly the definition in him affected me. I hadn’t expected to have thoughts I could barely admit to myself, thoughts about how attractive he looked.
How I wanted him to stretch those strong, lean fingers out and brush my bare skin.
Cultured, refined people didn’t have these feelings. Or if they did, they did a much better job regulating them than me. Still, I’d rather struggle with covering them up than not have them at all. I remembered the way that patch had made me feel—like I was shutting off my senses one by one.
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