Chapter 4: Central
In the heart of the city, the medical facility loomed before us like an ancient temple of precious secrets. It was a large gray structure, nearly identical to the others, only with more windows and thick black columns surrounding the entrance. I could see how patients may have found it ominous but, for me, it was beautiful.
A narrow path of mosaic metal glistened like pressed smoke, stretching out before us to a pair of large sliding doors. I stepped inside and felt my stomach drop. The arched roof was over twenty feet high, gradually slanting upwards until it blended into the third floor. Muffled voices echoed off steel tiles as crowds of people merged into perfect lines near the front. Water cascaded down the wall opposite us, blanketed by a thin sheet of glass.
I was suddenly very nervous. Part of me wanted to turn around and head back for the hotel, but that would mean I would have to navigate the city myself and, even worse, I’d have to explain myself to Scia. Determined to swallow my fear, I took a deep breath and watched as rays of colored light shot up through the fountain, the hues slowly darkening with every step.
Scia was already approaching a structure that looked like the self-checkouts I’d seen in stores, only without the platform to declare merchandise. She placed her wrist on the scanner, and gestured for me to do the same.
I had to concentrate to keep from shaking as I slid the folds of my wrist above the smooth glass to allow my ID chip to be read. I could see the lasers flashing red and green underneath, dancing at a speed my brain couldn’t comprehend.
The machine made a whirling noise a few seconds, before clearing me. A black digital card popped out below.
I picked it up to find it had the words “Vallanie Sharp, Apprentice Perciever” in bold silver letters, beside my most recent school picture. It jarred me to see the familiar face peering out from the over-hair-sprayed mane that fanned out around my face and shoulders in layers. The gold neckline of my dress was visible, and I couldn’t help but remember sitting in my room under an oversized blanket with Sid as she helped me decide on an outfit for picture day.
I looked up to see if Scia had a card of a similar nature. She pulled one from her pocket with a knowing smile, along with two pairs of magnet strips. She used the first pair to stick the card to her coat like a nametag, and gave the others to me to do the same.
There was something reassuring in the simple action of pressing the tag to my heart. It was as if I was reaffirming my commitment as a perceiver.
By the time I looked up, Scia was already moving down the gaping hallway to our left. I had to hurry in order to catch up, jumping on to the escalator behind her.
“The floors are all different wards,” she explained, straightening her coat collar. “There are twelve. First is reception and routine check ups. Second to fourth are evaluation. Five and six are private offices, with six being where the Department of Mental Health’s executive meetings are held; seven to nine are for treatments; and ten and eleven are for research. Twelve is where severe cases are held and evaluated.”
I followed her from the escalator towards a digital wall, where the time blinked at me in large red glowing numbers above coded announcements that scrolled along the bottom. One static line shown across the top: Floor 2. Evaluation.
I smiled. “That shouldn’t be too hard to remember.”
Scia didn’t seem to be paying attention. She was already heading to the next escalator across the way.
I hurried to keep up.
“Since we travel so much,” she explained, “perceivers don’t have their own offices, with the exception of the four current overseers, and Dr. Cecil.”
At the mention of the name, I looked around for someone who fit my imagined assumption of the current Perceiving Council President—a tall fit middle-aged man in the traditional dark coat, with perfect posture and a high held chin—but I was disappointed by the ordinary looking few perceivers who moved about us. The men all had adorable symmetric faces, with bright eyes that scanned the screens of their radixs as they strode through the halls with a sense of purpose. The women had perfectly styled hair that fell just long enough to remain attractive without being too long to interfere with typing, and curvaceous figures that even their robes could only mask like a light fog on a summer’s day. They seemed to float joyfully from one task to another. I couldn’t wait to look like that one day.
I followed Scia from escalator to escalator in silence, until we stopped on the final evaluation floor. Scia led me down a narrow hall, where tiny bright lights glowed behind a crystal ceiling that made it look like the night sky. A row of dark velvet curtains hid the wall to our left, while we passed a series of identical white doors on the right. A small circular window was cut into each door at eye level, and covered with a thick plate of glass. The ground lit up inches in front of us as tiny automatic lights danced around our ankles, matching our pace perfectly.
Scia reached into her pocket and retrieved her radix, which she unfolded from its phone form into a two-foot digital pad as she came to a stop where the hall turned a corner in front of room 422.
“When a patient comes in and their ID is scanned, their file is brought up and assigned to a perceiver at random. Each perceiver has a personal code, or password, that allows us to gain access to these files.” She gave me her password and continued, “Remember that. You’ll be working under me during your apprenticeship, so you’ll be using my database. Patients are listed by room number, in order of their check-in time, unless there is an emergency, in which the number will appear red and bold at the top of the list. In the case of an emergency, you are to finish up whatever you’re doing and report to the assigned location as soon as possible.”
She held out her screen so I could see it, and pressed the number 422, which lit up, before taking us to the next screen of information: a short summary of our patient, including her age, genetic chart, reason for examination, and previous mental history.
The patient was a female, married, in her mid-thirties. The reason for her visit was due to two separate complaints about her attitude towards the Authorized, and being seen near the Perimeter on multiple occasions without proper authorization.
I was reading over each line so carefully, I had barely finished when Scia pulled her radix back and tucked it in her pocket, scanning her wrist to open the doors.
They parted to reveal a small room similar to the one I was examined in at our school med center when I skinned my knee playing medieval knights with Sid in the digital rec. room during our third year. Light bounced off solid white walls to be absorbed by the two black chairs that sat facing one another.
The one facing the door was occupied by a middle aged-woman. Even though she was wrapped in the cream patients robes, I immediately identified her as a worker due to her slender figure, calloused hands, and light tan. She looked up when we walked in.
“Good Morning.” Scia’s voice was like an angelic robot, soft and devoid of emotion, as she glided towards the patient and offered her hand. “I’m Dr. Novem and this is my apprentice, Miss Sharp.”
“Cornelia Ducent,” the woman grunted in response. Her voice was rough and mechanical.
I watched as the corner of Scia’s mouth twitched up in response, but she remained silent, circling her patient with a steady gaze, in much the way a predator would size up its prey. Then she turned her back to Ms. Ducent and took a seat opposite her. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you think?” The woman snapped. She narrowed her eyebrows in such a way it seemed to squeeze out all the beauty in her face. “Some perceiver screwed me over.”
Scia’s emotion remained hidden in her emerald eyes as she continued to sit upright, channeling a polite hostess. “You think you are healthy?”
“I know I’m healthy.” Each word was delivered clear and polite, but I could taste the bitterness that penetrated the air.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.” Scia flashed an empty smile before pu
lling information up on her radix. “You are a worker, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Twelve years now?”
“Going on thirteen.”
“Yes or no is all I want,” Scia replied without looking up, “nothing more.” She typed something in on Mrs. Ducent’s chart, but I saw her erase it. She waited a few long seconds before looking back at her patient. “Are we clear?”
Mrs. Ducent leaned back in her seat, dropping her arms from where they were folded across her chest, until they fell dejected to her lap. She moved her eyes to the floor. “Yes.”
“Good.” Scia leaned back in her chair. “You have a husband?”
“Yes.”
“He’s an Authorized?”
“Yes.”
I was impressed. I’d never seen an Authorized anywhere other than in movies, and even then they were usually only stone-faced unexplained men and women who served only to provide mysterious help to the protagonists and disappear. I’d never imagined them as actual people with families.
“And you argue?”
“Sometimes.“ She was looking directly at Scia again.
“Yes, or no, Mrs. Ducent?” Scia’s voice was soft, but commanding.
Mrs. Ducent hesitated, before lowering her eyes. “Yes.”
“Have you ever insulted him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mean it?”
The woman raised her eyes, but they were softer than before. “No.”
Scia softened her voice as well, though it still sounded commanding. “Why would you say something that you don’t mean?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly, and then louder, more desperately, “I don’t know!” Her pleading eyes met Scia’s hard stare, and darted away, like the receding ocean against a rocky shoreline. Her gaze clung to the first thing it found that might save her: me. “You have to believe me. I was just so angry with him. He didn’t come home one night, and I was scared, and when I saw him the next day, he just said he had to work late, like it was no big deal. I started shouting at him, and before I knew it, I was saying the most awful things to him. But I didn’t mean them. I didn’t.”
I raised my head, starting to nod, but thought better halfway through, and looked to Scia.
Scia wasn’t looking at me, but at Mrs. Ducent, observing her behavior with interest. “What things did you say?”
My gaze still on Scia, I felt the woman’s stare on me through the thick silence until, at last, I heard her mumble, “I can’t remember.”
Scia tapped the armchair with a forefinger. “Can’t you?”
I risked a look back to the patient. Her eyes were on Scia’s feet. “I’m sure you could ask the neighbors. They were thrilled to call me out on it.”
“Did you say something against the Authorized?” Scia asked, sounding like a teacher questioning a misbehaved student
Mrs. Ducent hesitated, her lips pried apart without any sound coming out. “Yes,” she said at last, her shoulders rolling forward. Defeated, her heart collapsed in on itself. “But I didn’t mean it.”
“What did you say?”
“I don’t know.” She brought a hand to her eyebrows, shaking her head continuously back and forth, shutting her eyes tight. “That I hated them for having him work late. That they weren’t doing anyone any good anyway.” Her eyes flew open and she leaned forward. “But they clearly are. They keep our streets safe at night. I don’t know where any of us would be without the Authorized-I’m glad my husband works for them, I really am. Oh, I hope I don’t make him lose his job. I didn’t mean any of it. I didn’t.”
Scia pursed her lips and made note of something on her radix. “Don’t worry about your husband, Mrs. Ducent, we are talking about you, not him. You mentioned before that you were scared when he didn’t come home. Do you not think your home is safe?”
“Oh no, I wasn’t worried about me. I was worried about him.”
“That he was hurt?”
“No. That he was, well, out with another woman, if you know what I mean. Or that he decided he didn’t like me anymore.”
“So you tried to follow him to work, to see if he really went.”
She gave a slow nod, followed by a quiet, “Yes.”
“You know that you are not Authorized, and therefore cannot enter the Perimeter?”
Her eyes lit up, widening in fear as she realized what Scia was insinuating. “I never tried to enter the Perimeter. I had no intention of following my husband in to work. I am perfectly aware of the damage it could cause to leave a door cracked, or to anyone who enters with out a hazard suit. I had no intentions of leaving the dome, I promise.” She gulped, her voice wavering as if on the verge of tears. “I just wanted to know he loved me.”
“Those thoughts are not good, Mrs. Ducent. Nothing good ever comes from suspicion.” She adjusted her coat collar. “However, as bad as they may be, they are not necessarily unhealthy, and neither is your mind, from what I can tell. You are free to leave.” Uncrossing her legs, Scia stood gracefully and strode to the button by the entrance. Her hand hovered centimeters from its surface when she stopped to look over her shoulder, back to her patient. “Do try and refrain from insulting both your husband and his colleagues in the future.”
Scia walked briskly from the room and I followed. When the doors clicked shut behind us, she turned to me. “What do you think?”
“I think you did well.”
“Thank you for the compliment, but of course I did well. I wouldn’t be on the Elite council if I couldn’t. I was more interested in your thoughts on the patient?”
“Oh.” Of course that was what she meant. I was stupid to have thought otherwise. “Well, she did well too. I mean-” I fumbled to explain myself coherently, “she proved that she was healthy.”
“Can you think of anything she said that may have led you to this conclusion, had I not been there to make the diagnosis?”
I thought that was a dumb question because if she hadn’t been there to make the diagnosis, I wouldn’t have asked the same questions and might not have gotten the same information, so it would be impossible to say what led me to this conclusion, if in deed, I would even have the same conclusion. I knew that wasn’t what she meant though, so I shoved the thoughts aside as soon as they entered my mind, focusing on what I knew she wanted to hear: what, in her consultation, led me to believe the patient was healthy. “She was able to answer in absolutes, a clear indicator that an understanding of logic was present.”
“Go on.”
“She knew what her mistake was, admitted to it, and agreed to prevent it from occurring in the future. Her responses demonstrated an understanding and desire to adhere to the rules.”
“True.” Scia smiled and I felt a sense of pride. “Her behavior was due to a temporary emotional imbalance that should have been corrected before acting or speaking. It was inappropriate, but not indicative of any danger.”
We continued with more and more patients in a similar manner: a woman who was seen crying in public, a man who had told his wife he was thinking of retiring early, a woman who had missed her annul check-up because she was working on a project and lost track of time, and various individuals who had checked themselves in after receiving notifications from Novagene Design Core that their request to design a child had been temporarily denied. All of them were found healthy.
We still hadn’t seen an interesting patient by lunchtime, and I was disappointed. Scia led me to the cafeteria, still discussing the condition of our most recent patient as we went through a station, choosing our drinks and meals that were placed on a silver tray by men and women in silver uniforms with blank stares and persistent smiles.
It was by far the busiest room I had seen all day. The place gleamed in a soft light emitting from tiny orbs that moved slowly across the ceiling like miniature trains on an invisible track. One large circular light hung suspended above the entrance, entwined with silver, like an upside down chalice. Every four
th tile lit when stepped on, and I enjoyed watching the ever chancing chess board, while men and women in black and white coats moved about at different paces, filling and emptying trays, conversing in quiet voices, or stomping loudly with their heads bent over a radix screen.
The booth we sat at was rounded, the screen in the center providing most of the light. Scia quickly pulled up a video of the news. Images of the latest plastic surgery technology filled the screens. I tried to ignore the pictures of steel and blood that blurred together in a grotesque mosaic under my grilled cheese sandwich.
That afternoon, we encountered several more healthy patients before we met our first ill one, and even he was only diagnosed with situational depression after his son had been apprenticed. I couldn’t help but worry if my mother was going through the same thing.
Feeling sorry for him, I gave a cautious step forward at the end of the exam. “What did your son study?”
A pair of weary blue eyes looked towards mine, and a small smile appeared beneath them. “Genetics.”
I smiled in response. “Does he like it?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, he loves it.”
I gave a small nod farewell and turned away, feeling my heart began to warm. It quickly froze over when I looked up to meet Scia’s ice-cold gaze.
“Do you remember your responsibility?” Scia demanded the moment the doors slid shut.
“Yes.” I looked down at my hands, fidgeting with my bracelet. “To observe and imitate.”
“Never speak during an examination unless I give you permission.” Scia leaned forward, her eyes so close to my face that I had no choice but to look up and meet them. There was a spark there that I hoped never flared to life. “Is that clear?”
I nodded, numb and tired, wanting nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed.
Knowing it would be at lease a full three hours before I’d get my wish, I trailed obediently behind my mentor to our next patient: a fragile frizzy haired man insisting he was not supposed to be there.
“There must be some mistake,” he said for the sixth time, after Scia showed him his chart to prove that he had, in fact, checked himself in, and he was, in fact, Mr. Henry Lin, electrical engineer from west Civitis. “I don’t know a single thing about engineering. And I’m not from Civitis.”
“Oh?” Scia arched an eyebrow. “Where are you from, then?”
“I can’t tell you.” He looked like a pouting five year old, arms folded across his chest, frown practically embossed on his face.
“Why not?”
“It’s no use.” He leaned back, shaking his head in annoyance. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“And why would that be?” Scia asked with refined patience.
“I can’t tell you.”
The conversation continued in circles like this for almost ten minutes before Scia let her radix fall to her lap and leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know what to tell you Mr. Lin, but your chart says you’re an engineer living in Civitis, and we have a neighbor and two co-workers to back that up.” Unable to retrieve any reaction from her patient other than his steady frown, she leaned forward with a small smile. “You want to know what I think?”
He shook his head no, but Scia answered anyway. “I think we’d better take a break and continue this conversation tomorrow.”
The man began to interject, but Scia held up a hand to silence him, continuing without missing a breath, “It’s all right, Mr. Lin, you’re free to stay here as long as you’d like. You could wait a week if you wish.”
His eyes widened in disbelief like she had told him the power had gone out. “No,” he said letting out a slow breath.
Scia shut her radix, standing to leave. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
“Wait!” He called desperately, “There has been a mistake. I’m not Mr. Lin.”
“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow, looking just far enough over her shoulder to show Mr. Lin he had just enough of her concentration that he his next words would either keep it, or loose it entirely.
“I’m Dr. Max Gibson, a level three Authorized under the command of Dr. Watkins. If you could contact him, I’m sure we could get this all cleared up.”
Scia turned to him, taking a single step towards his chair. Holding out her radix she pressed a button and commanded, “Locate Dr. Watkins, Authorized.” She then held the device to the black panel on the wall nearest her, so the response echoed through the speakers, “Unable to detect a Dr. Watkins, Authorized.”
Scia looked up at her patient expectantly.
“He’s, uh, in the Perimeter.” The man fumbled.
It was a good alibi, knowing the Ortus did not reach that far, and would be hard to prove false. Or so I thought, until Scia commanded her radix to “Locate chart, Gibson, Max, Authorized.”
“Unable to detect a chart for Authorized, Gibson, Max.”
She looked up at him once more, the same expression on her face, a mix of wanting explanations and patience.
I was surprised she could remain so calm in the presence of someone so clearly mentally unstable. With rising excitement, I wondered if this could be my first case of slither.
He frowned, seemingly lost in concentration. “That’s because I wasn’t genetically designed.”
If I had any doubt of this man’s sanity, it was washed away with that comment. No one was born without a chart. It was impossible.
Scia shook her head, sliding her radix back into a round silver sphere, which she dropped into her coat pocket. “I think that’s all we need. Thanks for cooperating, Mr. Lin, someone will be in to treat you shortly.” With a polite nod, she turned her back to him and headed for the door.
Mr. Lin was not willing to be dismissed so quickly. “Treat me? With what?”
Reaching the door, Scia turned to explain methodically, “I’m afraid you are infected with slither, which requires a complete reinstallation. Fortunately, we have a reinstallation center on site, so you should be in by tomorrow night at the latest. In the mean time, please make yourself comfortable and try to enjoy your stay.”
The door slid open and Scia walked briskly through.
I was a mere two feet behind here when Mr. Lin suddenly jumped from his seat, crying out so loud I nearly jumped, “There are eight essential lessons in life!” He ran towards me and I froze, overcome with confusion. Falling to his knees, he grasped invisible strands of air. “The most important is that the youth has the power to change the world. But at what price? What foul winter does September bring?”
For a moment I was almost touched, thinking it was some sort of flattery through what sounded like a severe misquotation of Shakespeare. Then I noticed his eyes weren’t on mine, but were focused on an empty space behind me.
“In January eighteen sixty nine,” he began to babble nonsensically, “the fourth king of Rome, though only eleven at the time, fought with his shield hidden in his sword.”
I felt Scia’s hand on my shoulder. With the other holding the door open, she pulled me backwards and into the hall, tearing me away from the curiosity and fright that kept me rooted in place as the mad man continued to ramble on about licking lions.
“Never stay in a room with a slither infected patient for longer than necessary,” she said, ensuring the door had locked shut behind us. With that, she turned her back to me, and began silently typing on her radix as usual.
And that was it. She didn’t ask any questions, nor did she provide the opportunity for me to ask the many that were brewing in my mind. We continued on to the next patient, and I had to push back all the excitement and fear stirred up by the previous one, until I was left with a strange sensation that can’t quiet be described, but closest resembled a forced numbness.
. The remainder of the afternoon passed by slowly as Scia completed the examinations of six more patients, all of which were healthy or simply ready for retirement.
By the end of the day, I wished I had been allowed to retire.
One day of work already seemed like one day too many. I was exhausted. The day hadn’t gone as I had planned. It wasn’t necessarily bad—just a lot of work. A lot of watching other people work. It was boring.
“I would like for you to type up what you’ve learned today,” Scia said during dinner, all signs of anger having evaporated hours earlier. “Nothing too much, just a page or two, but be specific.”
“Of course.”
We got back to our room just before the red glow signaling Lights Out. I tried contacting Sid, but she didn’t answer. I thought about contacting Mom, but I didn’t want her to worry. I’d call her when I had good new to tell her, I decided, or when I was much more enthusiastic.
Collapsing into a chair, I stared out the window, watching the crimson ground fade to black. When I was surrounded by nothing but darkness, I opened my radix and started on Scia’s paper. I finished it, but I didn’t enjoy it. In fact, I hated it. I hated it all: the paper, the place, the job, Scia—everything.
Crawling into bed, I felt my eyes grow hot. It took me a minute to realize they were wet with tears. All I wanted was to go home. I thought of Mom, sitting on the soft floor of her studio in her thick gloves handling the wriggling metal she so often transformed into beautiful sculptures of planets and stars far away. When I was younger, I would lie down and watch her, and she would sing to me as the landscapes twisted and rolled into being from nothing but empty space.
I smiled at the memories. But then I remembered that they were just memories and nothing more. I wouldn’t see Mom again for months, and that seemed far too long. And it would never be the same, I realized, because from here on, I’d be spending all my time with Scia. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. She was harsh, mean, and, at that moment, I hated her.
No, I thought, rolling over on my side. I didn’t hate Scia. She just wasn’t Mom. I reminded myself that it had only been one day. It takes time to get to know someone.
Rubbing the back of my hand over my eyes, I vowed to be the best apprentice I could. I would earn Scia’s approval. I would do everything I was asked, and do it to the best of my abilities. I would be her best apprentice yet. Other mentors would be jealous. Scia would have no choice but to love me.
Satisfied, I turned over once more, and fell into a beautiful dream in which I found the cure to slither.
Chapter 5: Mr. Prime
The Chronicles of Vallanie Sharp: Novice Page 4