Ten Days

by Olivia Mayfield

The lift reached the appropriate level. I exited and started walking down the hallway then caught myself. In my area, I knew what to expect. I should be more cautious here.

  “Machine, I need transport to the public nursery,” I said.

  A mechanized chair appeared a few seconds later. I slipped in with a sigh and let it slide me down the dim tunnels. A sudden realization gave me pause—their hallway had lights, whereas ours was nearly pitch-black and had been for a while. I wondered why.

  That sick feeling in my stomach came back. Could this, too, be some kind of odd glitch, like the food and music?

  The chair moved on the slightest of whispers. I wove down hallways, darting left, right, left, moving closer to the place where I’d spent the first dozen years of my life. Memories flooded my mind as I neared my destination. The daily schedule that ticked my life by in even segments. Rise early. Eat breakfast. Wash up. Lessons. Lunch. Lessons. Dinner. Private time. Bedtime.

  Day in and day out.

  And yet, we’d still found stolen moments of time to grow closer. Tessa and I had slept in beds beside each other. Late into the night, when the other girls were sleeping, we’d stayed up whispering. Talking about what we’d thought of the day’s lecture or how to sound more intelligent when called on by our instructors. Or sometimes, Tessa and I had dared to get more personal, wondering what it would be like to live alone. Wondering if adults ever got tired of thinking, not doing. Energy had sizzled under our skins, untapped, undesired. But still there, just the same.

  Tessa and I had known we weren’t supposed to connect with each other; our instructors had taught us that independence from personal attachments was one of the highest forms of sophistication.

  Yet she and I had dared to be different, even in that small way. And lucky for us, we hadn’t been punished for it. There were several nights when our favorite instructor, Sirama, would catch us talking and shush us with an indulgent smile on her face. I’d always enjoyed her classes the most. Her sense of calm serenity had pervaded every lecture, had given her infinite patience.

  Even now, though she’d been long retired from the public nurseries, I found myself drawn back to her, sharing stories and listening to her soothing words from time to time.

  I should check in with Sirama and see how she was feeling. Last time we’d talked, she’d been getting some strong aches and pains in her back. Part of the blessings of aging, she’d told me with a laugh, refusing medicinal help from the Machine. I’d admired her courage then; still do.

  The chair stopped right outside the doorway of the public nursery. I stood, and it whisked away, slipping down the hall and out of sight. For a split second I had a swell of panic. I hadn’t told Hanson I was coming. Maybe I should have notified him first. Did he have any interest in seeing me?

  Only one way to find out.

  Steadying my hand, I pressed the door open and stepped inside.

  Chapter 5

  “While originality was a much-favored trait to our ancestors, it is important to remember that those fresh ideas also came with heated debates, excesses of emotion, things that led to unnecessary war and strife. To avoid such unfortunate passions, it’s far better to seek out and propagate ideas that have been filtered through many varied sources, so as to remove all nuances of emotion and reveal nothing more than the one absolute kernel of truth.” ~ The Book of the Machine

  It was midmorning, so in the back of the massive room, the children focused on flipping through pages of the Book, looking for whatever answer the instructor had requested. I examined the rows of children until I saw Hanson, his light brown hair clipped closely to his head. He was bent over the Book, finger sweeping across the page as he scoured within.

  A smile broke out on my face. I was surprised by the surge of emotion I experienced. I missed him. It had been far too long since my last visit.

  One of the instructors looked up from her hunched position over her Book. When she saw me, standing, a frown marred her brow. I didn’t recognize her—she had to be new since I’d left several years ago.

  I whispered a request for a chair and dropped into it when it arrived a moment later. With a nervous swallow, I progressed toward the classroom, lingering in the back so as not to distract anyone. Looked like just a couple of minutes left until the children got a small break. I used the time to study my brother’s face, the angles of his nose and cheeks, already thinning as he grew older. He was getting closer to eight every day.

  His eyes were so much like mine. But other features, like the pinched set of his lips, the proud jut of his chin, came straight from our mother. Despite being a bit older than was considered normal for birthing, Hanna was considered such a perfect specimen of society that she was permitted to bear another child—Hanson.

  The minutes passed quickly. As I waited, I asked the Machine to relay to the instructor that I was here to visit my brother. When the instructor released the children to take a break, she waved Hanson aside and leaned over to talk to him, careful to maintain proper distance. He looked over at me; the edges of a smile curved the corners of his lips, and mine did the same in return. He wouldn’t show it in front of her, but I could see it in his now-bright eyes.

  He was happy I was here.

  It was worth taking the risk to come see him just for this moment. Knowing someone in my family cared about me.

  “Hanson only has a few minutes to spare,” the instructor said. Her gaze raked over me. She didn’t like me, in spite of not knowing a thing about me—it was apparent in her disdainful gaze, her clipped words. “You two may converse in the reading area.”

  I gave her a curt nod, trying to tamp down my irritation. Today was about my brother, not about me and my frustrations with others.

  Hanson and I made our way to the reading area. This corner of the room glowed brighter, enabling easier study of the Book. And since this area was near the infant nursery, quiet was better. No one else was around, so we were alone.

  For the first time since leaving my pod, I could feel the tension seeping from my shoulders. I gave Hanson an easy smile.

  “Hi, Cally,” he said, clasping his hands in his lap. He kept his eyes focused on his fingers, twisting and fumbling around each other. I forgot how small he was; his narrow frame left plenty of space around him in the chair. “How have you been lately?”

  He sounded so polite. So formal. A little of my easy smile faded. “I’ve been well,” I answered, forcing my tone to stay upbeat, light. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I just wanted to check in on you and make sure all is okay.”

  He peeked up to look at me, giving the slightest glance toward the instructors. “Have you seen Hanna?”

  “I talked to her recently. She’s…been busy. Lots of new tasks on the Committee.” I cleared my throat, desperately looking for something else we could discuss. I didn’t want to bring our mother into this. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested in anything more than polite interaction. And while I still struggled with it, I didn’t want to sour Hanson’s feelings toward her. “Um, have you heard any good ideas lately?”

  With this, Hanson’s face relaxed and I finally saw his personality breaking through. “I heard some really amazing things,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The excitement pouring from him was magnetic and endearing. I found myself leaning forward. “Tell me all about it.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure if I should believe it or not, but it sounds neat. A long time ago, men and women used to make up stories from their own minds and write them down. And people would buy them as books. Not like the Book, but small ones. And they would draw images on the outsides of them!” The words spilled from him, getting faster as he talked. “Can you believe it? I wonder what they looked like. I wonder if they had lots of colors.”

  I admit, his enthusiasm more than just made me chuckle. He had me genuinely curious. “What did they write about?”

  “Well, I guess they wrote about whatever they were feeling.
” He shrugged. “Things like anger or sadness. Some even wrote about love.”

  Love. My heart thrummed as Marshal’s face came to mind. What would it be like to love someone, to embrace that emotion with every fiber of your being and let the world know you felt that way? Did society really used to be so intimate, so open with their sentiments?

  “I bet there were lots of interesting books back then,” I made myself say as casually as possible, trying to push those absurd ideas aside. “What would you have written a book on?”

  He stared up at the ceiling, deep in thought. “I like nature. Learning about it—how things used to be on the surface before it became toxic. I’d want to write about that.”

  I nodded. “My friend Marshal and I know a man who loves the stars and the faraway places beyond our planet. I bet that’s what he would have chosen.”

  “What about you?” He turned those piercing eyes to me, naked curiosity written on his face. “What do you like?”

  “Truth,” I said, surprising myself. I didn’t know why I’d told him that. But it was true. I wanted to know what was real. To share that reality with others.

  Hanson chewed on his lip, twisting in his seat. I could tell he wanted to ask me something.

  “What is it?”

  “Did you feel—did you feel when you were here like you didn’t…” He drew in a shaky breath and squeezed his hands together, the knuckles turning white. “Like you didn’t belong?”

  My heart lurched. It had taken him a lot of courage to ask me that. I reached a hand out to touch his arm, unable to keep myself from connecting with him in this strange, yet innate way. “I still feel like that,” I whispered, pouring all the warmth and empathy in my voice that I could.

  “Excuse me,” the instructor said from right behind me. “Is something the matter?” Her words were frosty.

  I jerked my hand away, shooting Hanson an apologetic glance. For a moment I’d forgotten where I was. I’d forgotten that in this place of learning and education, I was breaking a serious rule by touching my brother’s arm. Straightening my spine, I said, “Nothing is wrong,” hoping my reply sounded firmer than I felt. It was so easy to give in to the urge to cower to others. I resented that.

  “I think it’s time for you to go,” she said, her thin lips pursed in displeasure. Her beady eyes were sunk deep in her sockets. “Hanson needs to get back to his studies. He doesn’t have time for frivolous discussions.”

  She’d heard us. And he was probably going to be in trouble for it. I pressed my shaky hands to my thighs, turning the chair toward her. “We were sharing ideas. The cornerstone of our society. We did nothing wrong.”

  “The Committee can decide what’s appropriate and not. You would do well to remember it.” She swallowed, causing the large flap under her chin to wobble. “It’s my job to help ensure our children are raised with proper focus. And now it’s time for us to get back to work. Hansen, please tell your sibling goodbye.”

  His eyes flooded with melancholy.

  I shook my head at him, trying to send him the mental image to stay strong. He was so much like me—filled with deep emotion, struggling to pretend he was someone he wasn’t. “We’ll talk again soon,” I said. “I promise you that.”

  With a sad little smile, he nodded and turned to go, the instructor moving behind him.

  * * *

  The trip back to my pod was uneventful. Though for an impulsive moment I was tempted to linger in this colony until it was nightfall so I could see Kuno’s stars, I pressed on, keeping to myself, not looking at or interacting with others. It was a different air-ship for my return, so I didn’t see the same attendant as before. No crying little girls or cracks in window blinds.

  I had to be more careful. It was one thing for me to get in trouble. It was altogether something much worse if my civil disobedience led to issues for Hanson. He was so trusting, so open to me. I couldn’t let him down.

  As I stared blindly at the dim blinds in the air-ship, I couldn’t turn my mind off. Was it better for me to squash Hanson’s openness, to encourage him to be like everyone else? Or was that false, hypocritical, knowing I was struggling with that very issue myself?

  This had to stop.

  My trip had made me realize I was flirting with danger. People had been arrested, imprisoned, questioned for insubordination such as what I was secretly doing. The addictive nature of feeling had caused me to throw caution to the wind. And I needed to be more responsible. Having the Committee even more aware of me, watching me, would make my life miserable.

  The air-ship landed. On autopilot, I headed to the platform, down the lift, through the tunnels. Into my pod, where I closed my door, dropped into my chair and gave a heavy sigh. The room flashed with dozens upon dozens of messages; I’d forgotten to turn on isolation in my impulsive decision to see Hanson.

  Fortifying myself, I flipped through, sending quick messages when I could and deleting ones that didn’t need a response. I shot Marshal a quick line asking how his day was, knowing he was probably curious about my lack of contact today.

  His image filled my screen as he called me.

  I bit my lip and answered.

  “I wondered when I was going to hear from you,” he said, the teasing tone evident in his voice.

  “I went to see my brother.”

  “Wow. How is he?”

  I shrugged. “He’s…he’s like us. Not sure how to fit in. Not sure if he wants to.”

  “I see. Well, are the instructors the same as when we were there?”

  I gave my first real smile since I’d left my brother. “Worse. Way worse. We lucked out with having Sirama teach most of our lessons.”

  He chuckled. “So, when do you want to go see Kuno tonight? I think I’ve finally broken him down enough to tell me what he was so upset about earlier.”

  “I…” With a big swallow, I forced myself to continue. “I think I’m going to pass on the visit, but thanks.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This isn’t a good time,” I said. How could I make Marshal understand my fear about this dangerous game we were playing? “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m…I’m afraid.”

  “You’re really not going to go.” His voice was flat now; disappointment leaked from his words.

  My stomach twisted. For once, I was glad the Machine didn’t show my emotions. I needed to pretend like I was normal until I started feeling it. I should lie to him, to myself until I made it my reality. Because after getting those warnings from the instructor and the air-ship attendant, there was a deep seed of panic growing in me.

  “Fine,” he continued before I could answer. “I’m going anyway. Because Kuno is my friend and I need to find the truth about what’s going on. All praise the Machine.” He hung up.

  For the first time in a long time, I felt really, truly alone.

  * * *

  The rest of my morning and early afternoon dragged in painfully slow seconds. I fidgeted in my pod, listlessly half paying attention to lectures. In truth, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tessa and Marshal and Hanson and my mother. I needed the voice of reason to help me sort them out.

  I needed Sirama.

  The lecture I was watching finally ended. I gave a polite, obligatory clap and exited the presentation, calling up Sirama.

  She answered quickly, her dark, slender face and shock of white hair filling the screen. “Cally, how nice of you to call.” The smile in her voice was evident, and I responded in kind.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t checked in with you lately. I’ve been super busy. How are you feeling?”

  With a shrug of her thin shoulders, she said, “Doing a little better. It comes and goes, you know.” Pause. “And what has been keeping you so very busy?”

  I bit my lower lip. Now that I thought of it, perhaps this wasn’t the kind of thing to discuss over the screen. My mother had mentioned to me in confidence once that they were often monitored, her way of encouraging me to behave appropria
tely.

  I hadn’t forgotten.

  “Would you like to come over and see me?” Sirama asked. “I can call us up something to snack on. Hopefully it won’t come out rotted.” She chuckled. “I’m assuming that when the ancients used to partake in midday treats, they didn’t have to endure these kinds of issues.”

  “I’d love to,” I replied. She must have picked up that I wasn’t comfortable talking in this form. “I’m on my way.”

  “No rush, dear,” she said, serene as always. “I’ll be here when you make it.”

  After saying our parting words, we hung up. I consulted the Book for air-ship times—while Sirama’s pod wasn’t nearly as far away as the public nursery, it still wasn’t close enough for me to travel by foot. But if I took the flight that left in just over a half hour, I could meet with her and be back in time to deliver my poetry lecture.

  I made my way down the hallway, up the lift and to the platform, shaking my head at the irony of my day. After years of not leaving my colony, I was taking two different flights in the same day.

  This trip was uneventful, taking little more than twenty minutes from takeoff to landing. This time, I was extra careful to maintain a respectful distance from others, not talking unless spoken to first. I did stare outside the window though, unable to keep myself from wanting to take in the sky and clouds, but that was in the privacy of my cabin.

  The very paragon of virtue—that was me. Hanna would be proud.

  I made my way down the lift to the appropriate floor, trying to squelch my bitterness. Yes, it would be wonderful to talk to Sirama, but I didn’t need to dump all my negative emotion on her. Maybe she’d have tips on how I could control myself better, not get so overwhelmed by my frustration and anger and those stinging small stabs of pain in my heart.

  Sirama’s pod was close to the lift. I decided to walk those few minutes and finally reached her door, giving it a rap.

  It opened, and she peered up at me, sharing with me a warm smile. “I’m so happy to see you. Please, come in.”