by E. L. Giles
The Birdman Project
By E.L. Giles
Copyright © 2020 by Forever Morris Publishing, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. The name, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, or actual events, or organization(s) is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of any author’s rights.
Second Edition February 2020
Published by Forever Morris Publishing, LLC
ForeverMorrisPublishing.com
®
ISBN: 9798606924004
Dedication
I dedicate this book to my girlfriend and my kids, who have supported me throughout this adventure, and moreover endured my mood swings. Writing a book is by no means a solitary task. I would also like to thank my best friend, Bern, thank you for all of your help, support, the many scotch bottles, and evenings playing Mario Kart 64, drinking and smoking cigars. Finally, I would like to thank both my editors, Kristen and Emily, without whom the book would still be somewhere on my computer, but surely not on your bookshelf.
~E.L. Giles
Chapter One
“Citizen: G8909-26-101. Insemination program: Phase One. Essay: number three,” mumbles Marcus Ruther, the head of the Birth Program Center, also known as the BP center. From where I stand, I hear him scribbling notes vigorously into a thick file on his desk. My file.
I lean forward and pick up my pants from the floor beside the examination table where I dropped them earlier. I put them on, fastening them as fast as I can before Marcus starts grumbling impatiently. Patience isn’t one of his virtues, and that is something, probably the only thing, he and I have in common.
I step outside of the examination room, and the laces of my shoes snap on the floor as I hurry to my seat. Marcus already appears out of patience, staring at me with dark, pitying eyes. I need to escape his gaze, only for a moment, so that I can calm down. I lean forward and lace my shoes, taking much longer than I would typically take to complete the task. I know how long it’s taking me won’t help my case with Marcus, and I realize how stupid it is of me.
I stand back up quickly, deciding to face him, smacking my head on the edge of his oversized desk in the process. Why does the desk have to be that big? I mean, why does everything in his office need to be big at all? The room itself is too spacious for the little use Marcus makes of it. There is a gigantic bookshelf that covers an entire wall. It is filled with hundreds of books that, for the most part, look either antique or unopened. Even the chair where I sat momentarily is exaggeratedly big, large enough for two individuals of my size with space to spare. Who needs such a chair? Even the paintings, scattered across the white plastered walls of his office, must easily reach six feet. They are impressive though, particularly those depicting the history of medicine in Kamcala, or the ones representing the human anatomy, which are fully detailed. Each part of the body is depicted accurately—if it wasn’t for the blurry areas around the genitals. The portraits of Marcus’s predecessors could have been more modest in size; all these faces that stare at me with serious eyes are disturbing.
A heavy sigh fills my ears. Marcus.
I’m less confident to face him suddenly, now that I’m sure his tolerance with me has evaporated like a puff of smoke. I concentrate on everything around me while massaging the aching spot on my head. I search out any little detail I may have missed, anything I can find, delaying the moment I will need to finally face him and his monologue regarding the importance of “one of the fundamental tasks every woman must fulfill.” Yeah, I know the drill. It’s not like I enjoy returning to endure the torture that is being inseminated over and over again.
Marcus could surely be a bit gentler with that metal tool he inserts into, well, into me, though it’s no big deal after all, since the hitch only lasts for an hour or so. I can handle that. No, what hurts—what really hurts—is the stress surrounding the whole procedure, which is far more destructive. It’s not only the overwhelming pressure the Party exerts on us, it’s also Marcus’s staring. He’s doing it right now. That is what I really can’t stand because I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me with such a stare. Is it anger, deception, hate, or does it simply give him an uncontrollable pleasure to make me feel like a worthless thing? It’s all the same to me—the troublesome factor. That and hearing, “You’re not pregnant” in his exasperated voice, knowing I’ll have to go through it all over again.
It’s getting to be too much for me to handle.
I square my shoulders and lay my hands flat on the leather armrest of the chair, deciding to face it all. I can do it. I’m strong enough.
I raise my head.
“No more chances left, citizen. If it remains negative, you’ll be classified inept for the task, and the overall process will be too expensive to keep trying with you.” Marcus scribbles some final notes in the file. “The next and final appointment will take place in two weeks, same time.”
I’m stuck on the “no more chances left” part. Did I really hear him right? I mean, there’s an end to it all? I must be dreaming. I will wake up in a second, I’m sure. To be sure it’s all real, I pinch the skin on my thigh. Certainty comes with the sting around the spot I pinched.
I feel a new energy growing inside of me. It’s overwhelming, making me want to smile and cry with joy. No more insemination. No more Marcus Ruther. My life will go back to normal.
It’s almost over…isn’t it?
Doubt squeezes my chest as I realize what a fool I have been to ignore the grimace that contorts Marcus’s face. How could I have so easily shoved aside this blend of exasperation and discouragement that screams at me that nothing is over yet?
“That’s it then?” I ask.
“No,” he says, callously.
“No…what…?”
Marcus sucks in a hissing breath and for a moment he looks puzzled, like he’s searching for his words. Or is he looking for the right way to tell me what’s coming? No, I doubt it. In this world, there is no way he would ever care about how to say things. He tells them, yells them, and grumbles them. He never minces his words.
Marcus says, “If you fail the last one, you’ll be trialed.”
The words stab at me. Trialed, like a criminal?
Compared to that, the insemination process seems like a fun game and the strains that come with it a faint twinge compared to the aching in my stomach now.
Is it really criminal to not be able to fulfill one of the thousands of official tasks that exist?
“I...” I hesitate. The words hurt against the lump in my throat, unable to exit my mouth. I take a deep breath, calming myself as much as I can despite the screams that build inside of me and then say, “I don’t understand.”
A moment of silence passes. I think maybe a change from my regular hot-headed attitude could push Marcus to feel more inclined to pursue the matter further, but I’m wrong. He’s mute, statue-still, yet appears perplexed. He must find my change of attitude unusual, maybe even a facade. Unless, once again, I’ve pushed too far with an official of Kamcala. In either case, I remain without answers. And without answers, I might lose my cool. I can’t let that happen.
There is also the possibility he simply didn’t understand what I meant. I think I should try again and be more obvious about what I’m asking. “Is—is
being unable to bear children criminal? Because, you know, I don’t feel like a criminal for that, and a trial makes me feel, you know, like I am, and…” Confronted with the lack of expression on his face, I trail off. Is he still here with me? Is he even aware I spoke to him, that I asked him something? Should I attempt to snap him out of this trance? That seems risky.
Marcus moves unexpectedly as I’m about to lose control and ask again. He pushes his chair back with a scratching noise on the wooden floor, gets up, and steps to the side of the desk, avoiding its corner as he heads toward the examination room. From where I sit, I can see most of the interior, from the bed to the stainless lavatory on the back wall. That’s where Marcus stops, a soap bar in hand, washing his trembling hands clean. Just as he closes the faucet, he bursts into an endless cough that turns his face deep red. For a moment, he sways on his feet, and I’m glad he gripped the lavatory’s edge. Otherwise, he would surely have fallen and slammed his head somewhere between the examination bed, the floor, and the corner of the wall. I stand by the edge of my chair, and I am ready to jump to his aid when I notice he calms down on his own, his elbows leaning on the solid surface of the sink. Slowly, the cough disappears, and when he steps out of the examination room, walking casually as if nothing happened, I notice his skin has already returned to its natural ghost-white color.
I stare at him for a moment, under the dim light of the desk lamp. Some of his traits are revealed in a new light, like his hollowed cheeks, and swollen black eye circles, or the cracked lips with dried blood in their crevices. He looks more emaciated than he did during our last encounter two weeks ago, as if he’s turning into a living skeleton. Maybe it’s because of age? Or I simply never noticed him like I do today? I don’t know.
For now, I have other concerns, questions that must be answered, and my time is running out. I ask more firmly, decided that he will tell me what will happen to me, no matter what. “And, um, what’s the goal of it all?”
Marcus reaches to remove his glasses, which he drops onto his desk.
“First, stop harassing me to no end unless you really want to be whipped publicly. Understand?” he says through gritted teeth.
I nod, suppressing the squeal his threat provokes. I work my features into the most apologetic expression I can manage and wait to hear the true scope of my faults. He calms, his appearance easing as he puts his glasses back on his nose, and he inhales deeply before he continues. “If you fail, your entire case will be evaluated, and the judge will determine whether or not you’re worth reassigning elsewhere.” He pauses, choking on a weird-sounding cough. “If you are not worth it, then you’ll be sent to the Retirement Center. It’s standard procedure and all you have to know, citizen.”
“Retired?” I shout, heat boiling up in my cheeks. I feel the sweat beading on my hairline, my palms, and my back. The moisture makes them stick to my clothes and the leather of the chair.
Retired. I can’t believe it.
I’m not disabled. I’m not old or too sick to keep on working, like some of the patients Supervisor Callum orders me to fill out Retirement files for. I’m eighteen, in perfect shape, and have been working as a nurse at the General Citizen Hospital for nearly a year now. How does being unable to bear a child hinder me from being a good citizen?
“It’s just—nonsense,” I say, mostly to myself.
Unfortunately, this thought is spoken too loudly, I fear, pushing Marcus to close his hands with white knuckles. He slams his fists on the hard surface of his desk. “Be careful, citizen! Not everybody is as tolerant as I am.” The manner in which he speaks is meant to be a warning. He’s reminding me that I should never argue with a Party official. “You may be eighteen and in perfect physical shape, but your case file thickens with reports at a dangerous pace. I highly suggest you shut your goddamn mouth if you don’t want to—if you want to stand a chance of being reassigned. You failed an official duty assigned by the Party, so you’re trialed. That’s the way it works. It’s regular procedure. As for the Retirement Center,” he pauses again, out of breath and trying to recover, “everything you need to know about it is in the brochure in the lobby.”
He makes a gesture with a hand, shooing me away. It’s clear he’s ending our appointment and stopping any possibility of further dialogue. The trouble is that many things still need to be cleared up.
“But what other assignment should I exp—”
Marcus’s eyes widen. “You—shut—up!” His jawline tightens as he clenches his teeth, and the vein that crosses his neck pops out, beating along with his heart.
Heat boils inside of me like a fever. My hands ache, and I realize I’m squeezing the armrests of my chair too tightly. I know I should gather my things and leave right now, but I can’t. My body refuses to obey, succumbing to the anguish that builds into rage like a pressure I must relieve or I will explode. I know myself well enough. I’ve gotten way too many reports already. I must calm myself. I must…keep my cool.
I get out of the chair, which is already a step in the right direction, but that’s the most I can manage. I stand stone-still, unable to pull the chair back, to lift a foot off the floor and walk toward the door. One question spirals in the back of my head: what will happen to me?
Marcus pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing a few times before he opens his narrowed eyes that stare at me like daggers.
“Is there a problem, citizen? I asked you to leave…” His voice trails off, but strangely, his lips keep on moving, like he is speaking to me. I could be totally wrong, but it seems like he’s repeating the same two words over and over. It takes me a few iterations to get what he’s saying: “Watch yourself.”
Watch yourself—it’s a clear reminder that I’ve pushed him to his extreme limits. His response is exactly what I needed to spur me out of my lethargy. I turn on my heel, tears filling my eyes and blurring my sight, as I head for the door.
I stop as my hand touches the handle. I twist my head toward Marcus. “Sorry for bothering you. And…thank you…I…” The words die in my throat.
I step out of his office and jog down the hallway, unaware of what I’m doing. It feels surreal, this retirement thing, the trial, my last chance to fulfill my task or make myself worthy of a reassignment. And, if I’m honest with myself, I’m ashamed of my behavior, knowing that the reports keep accumulating in my file. I have never thought about the consequences of all of them. Now that I am, I can’t help but ask myself, is it already too late?
I stop halfway through the hallway. Panic grabs hold of me. My chest constricts, caging the screams that build in pressure and all I want is to release myself from this blinding pain. Then this uninvited guest manifests, stabbing at the pit of my stomach, squeezing and burning it. The water closet, I need to make it there before I mess up the floor.
I turn back and run. Thankfully, the water closet is empty, and judging by the smell of antiseptic and the lack of dirt on the floor it’s actually clean. I enter the first stall and sit on a toilet, doing some breathing exercises to calm down. Breathe in—hold—breathe out—hold. My stomach still hurts. The aching worsens. I repeat the process. Breathe in—hold. I burp, and to my distress, it feels wet and tastes of bile. Dammit! I try again but this time slower. Breathe out—breathe in—breathe out—breathe in. I think of positive things. I focus on them, thinking they will distract me from this growing nausea, but it’s useless, and something leaves my stomach, burning its way up my throat, half-solid and half-liquid. Breathe in—breathe out—breathe in—breathe out.
Too late.
I kneel on the ceramic floor and clap a hand over my mouth, open the seat, and throw up everything I’ve ingested until only bile and water remain.
I rest my head on the plastic seat for a moment, trying to collect myself and clear my thoughts.
What if it’s still possible for me to be reassigned elsewhere? I guess it’s no big deal. My life will stay somewhat like it is—I think. I don’t think they would move me to another district unl
ess they give me another job, which I doubt, since nursing is what I’m good at—isn’t it? But what if I’m retired? What if I’m judged so useless that they have no other choice but to retire me completely? I can’t be that useless. How many patients have I helped? And where is the Retirement Center? I’ve never asked before. What will I do there for the rest of my life? Will I still work? Will I still care for people? And will I see her again? Anna?
I run out of the cubicle, driven only by the motivation to get to Anna before her tram leaves. She’s my only friend and, above all, my only confidant. She had already passed through the whole birth program. Maybe she could give me some hints or tricks as to how she made it work.
I head to the sink, wash my face, and rinse my mouth clean of vomit. Then I step out into the lobby. The old brown, metal clock, which hangs on the back wall of the lobby over the counter where a young, good-looking girl stands, says it’s quarter to five.
A quarter to five means I still have time to make it to the tram before it leaves, taking Anna far from me when right now I need her most. But I can’t leave before I look for the brochure Marcus mentioned earlier. I turn in every direction—left, right, up, and down. Wherever I look, I see nothing other than the row of seats in the waiting room, the paintings on the walls, and people walking down the boardwalk, probably heading to the tram station.
“Sorry, may I have the Retirement brochure please?” I ask the young girl.
She frowns as she stares at me, puzzled. Does my request surprise her, or is there a problem? Does she know what I’m talking about? I hope so.
She gestures toward a tall metal rack next to me. Okay, she does know what I’m talking about then. But how I missed the seven-foot-tall rack is beyond me.
I try scanning every shelf, using a small ladder that lies beside the rack to reach the upper ones and go down, section-by-section, row-by-row, and brochure-by-brochure. Hundreds of them are piled there, but none are what I’m looking for. I scan again while running a finger over each one of them. I don’t know, maybe my finger will stop on it before my blind eyes spot it?