The Chronicles of Vallanie Sharp: Novice

by Morgan Feldman

Civitis was an eye opener, that’s for sure. Towers of metal sprouted from the ground like gigantic trees, their branches twisting and overlapping in thin sky-bridges. Many were rounded at the top, while a few came to a point high in the sky, sticking up like a bed of large needles.

  Some were so tall; I could barely make out the top at all. I’d heard rumors that if you stood on the roof of the tallest building, you could reach up and touch the dome. I’d never believed them before, but standing there and looking up, it certainly seemed possible.

  Scia led me through a crossroad of gleaming sidewalks that reflected the surrounding buildings like a winter pond. If I hadn’t been trying so hard to impress her, I would have fallen to my knees and pressed my hand against it, just to be assured the cold metal was solid.

  I had to learn to maneuver my way around other pedestrians, especially after I narrowly avoided being run over by a biker as we came to the base of a small building four times the size of my house. Individuals dined in circular chairs out front while they watched the daily news or caught up on work. I hoped we were going there to eat, because I was starving, but I was too shy to say so.

  Inside was a tranquil atmosphere of blue and green lights that basked in the sweet smell of ice cream and coffee. We were directed to a section of a large snake like booth that wove its way across the tiled floor, coiling the circular tables. I was relieved to see the digital screen embedded in the table was open to a menu, and completed my order almost instantaneously.

  Scia took longer to place hers skimming through different options as she enlightened me on the research a friend of hers was doing on the harmful effects of letting the mind rest while awake. I found it hard to pay attention, because people kept going in and out in long flowing outfits. I recognized the uniforms of healers, perceivers, geneticists, mechanics, and some I couldn’t even identify.

  I pulled my attention back to Scia as she insisted we indulge in a series of logic puzzles while we waited for our food. She asked the questions, and I answered them. It was surprisingly more fun than I had expected, probably because I got them all right, making me feel like I was off to a great start as her apprentice.

  Soon enough, our meals were delivered, and the conversation died down. I had so many questions that had been building all day—I could barely contain them any longer. Scia paused to stir her coffee when the first one slipped out in a nervous rush, “When do we start working?”

  She smiled, keeping her eyes on the motion of her spoon in the dark murky water. “Tomorrow. We’ll start at Central.”

  “Central?” I repeated in surprise.

  “It’s all in the name.” She answered, mistaking my surprise for ignorance. “It’s where perceivers go to confer, learn, and teach.” She paused to blow on her coffee before taking the first sip. “It’s also where some of the worst and bizarre cases are brought.”

  “So, we won’t be looking for anyone?” I tried to keep the disappointment from my voice.

  “You will have to look at those who are already diagnosed before you will be able to recognize the symptoms.”

  I frowned. That sounded like a ‘no’ to me. I had memorized over a hundred symptoms by heart, from nonsensical mutterings to aggressive behavior, and doubted I would have a hard time recognizing them.

  As if she could read my thoughts, Scia’s smile grew. “You would be surprised at how subtle some symptoms can be. Or better yet, how easily some patients can hide them.”

  “Have you ever missed a diagnosis before?” Realizing my words could be mistaken for an insult, I added quickly, “or, do you know of anyone who has?”

  She didn’t seem bothered by the question in the least. “Once or twice, I’ve had my suspicions, but was convinced otherwise, only to diagnose them the next year.”

  “Have you…” I wanted to ask if she had ever falsely diagnosed anyone, but thought better of it midsentence. I fumbled quickly, “have you ever met someone dangerous?”

  “A few times, but it’s rare.” Her mouth twitched, and I could tell she was weighing whether or not she should tell me more. At last, she continued, “Have you ever heard of a defect called Ratus Retorta?”

  I remembered the name from school, and nodded slowly.

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Well,” I thought back to my elaborate doodles in the margins of our digital textbooks, and tried to remember the content between them. “I remember it’s an invisible defect.”

  “That’s to be expected. Anything else?”

  Her gaze was making me nervous. I wracked my brain, scraping together bits and pieces of Mr. Trin’s lesson. “One of the most dangerous invisible defects is Ratus Retorta, nicknamed slither,” the words came slow at first, but quickly gained speed as I gained confidence, “which can express itself in a number of ways, but the end result is always the same: distorted thoughts, shoved out of place. Like something slithered through them,” I added in my own words with a proud smile, “hence the name.”

  “Correct.” Scia nodded. “Except, I would say slither is the most dangerous defect. It completely destroys a person’s mind. They become paranoid, trusting no one, not even themselves, because they don’t know who they are. I’ve seen researchers with great potential think they should be workers, and workers who actually believe they are capable of research.”

  I wasn’t sure if I agreed with her. Researchers wanting to work didn’t seem like such a bad idea. After all, I had, on occasion, contemplated being one when I was younger, though I knew I’d never be allowed. Sometimes, Sid and I would scheme to switch places and pretend we were each other for a day. I suddenly wondered if that meant I was unhealthy.

  “So,” I began slowly, formulating what to say without sounding ignorant, “how would you tell if someone has slither or not? I mean, I’m good at chemistry, and I’m also good at art, but that doesn’t mean I have slither, right?”

  Scia laughed, pouring the dressing onto her salad. “No, of course not.”

  “Instead of, ‘I am a researcher who likes art,” she explained, “they would say one minute they were an Artist, and the next a Researcher, and so on and so forth. And they would believe it. They would believe they could be both simultaneously. Their thoughts become so jumbled that they forget who they are, so they try to make themselves up. They might suddenly think they are superior to their creators, or completely inferior and worthless. They get obsessed with flaws—in themselves, in those around them---they even begin to have doubts in our society as a whole, until they no longer believe in anything-- not the law, not science, not even logic.

  “That sounds horrible.”

  “It is.”

  “It’s a good thing they have us to help them.” I grinned, hoping to receive some form of approval.

  Scia did not return my smile. “Some cases are beyond help.” Her tongue licked her lower lip, and she stared into space, taking a moment to gather her thoughts.

  I felt like a cat that had just been scolded for jumping on the table.

  At last, she lowered the teacup to the steel table with a loud click as the metal scraped together. “There are times when the best we can do is end the defect.”

  That sounded like common sense, and I was hurt that she thought I didn’t already know it.

  She mistook my silence for even more ignorance, and continued to rationalize, “Slither can lead to severe self harm, even to the point of suicide. Or worse, the defective can lash out externally. I’ve seen both researchers and workers alike who have gone so far as to murder.”

  I swallowed. Murder wasn’t something I was familiar with, or had any desire to be. In fact, the only murder I could think of that had impacted me at all, took place over two years before this, and that was hundreds of miles from home. I’d just remembered Mom saying one of her friends had gone to college with the poor woman’s cousin.

  The thought that one human could kill another made me severely uncomfortable. “Have you actually met them?” I forc
ed myself to ask.

  Her answer scared me. “Oh yes. I’ve brought in a few myself.”

  I was barely able to keep my jaw from dropping. I couldn’t imagine Scia sitting across from a murderer, much less diagnosing him. My appreciation for the woman skyrocketed once again, and with it, my self-esteem plummeted. The thought of coming face to face with a murderer was absolutely terrifying. “Have you ever been hurt?”

  “No more than a bruise or scrape. Our job isn’t necessarily dangerous, Val. As long as you are alert and focused, you’ll notice any signs of abnormality and you’ll be prepared.”

  The words should have been comforting, but they weren’t. I didn’t think Scia knew me well enough to determine whether or not I was prepared to confront someone who was defective.

  Ensuring my doubt stayed hidden, I flashed a practiced smile and finished the rest of my meal in silence.