“And do you remember what we talked about then?” she asks.
He nods. Her words have been haunting him.
“In this world—this prison—where the past and the present converge, there’s pain,” she says. “You haven’t experienced agony until you stare into the eyes of someone you love and see no trace of recognition. I’ve witnessed what it can do to a person.”
Her face is a calm pond where sadness swims like fish underneath. She has seen and experienced more loss than Metis can imagine, and he knows he can never truly understand the depth of her suffering.
“I do not wish you that level of pain,” she says. “But more than that, you know confusing the past and the present will lead to our exposure. I’ve seen it happen too many times to count. Absinthe must be protected.”
She walks to him and places her hand on his cheek. Although he cannot physically feel her touch, the gesture makes him feel thin and brittle, like the paper he uses to write music on.
“Absinthe is the boat that carries people back to their past,” she says. “A Sandman, its captain, cannot point it in two directions at the same time. There’s no place for him in the present. That’s the burden you must bear.”
Chapter Three
Aris crosses a walkway that connects her building to another. The lush paths are old train tracks, repurposed after the need for them disappeared. In the spring, they explode with the bright colors of wildflowers. Now, greens and blues dominate.
Clusters of free-flowing grass sway next to the rigid rosemary shrubs and leggy lavender. The silvery blue of pygmy eucalyptus trees erupts from the green bushes below. Black-eyed Susans—bright yellow with dark centers—repeat every twenty meters.
Along both sides of the walkway are plants of various textures and shapes. Tall and skinny. Short and round. Petite and fragile. Some are feathery. Some are broad and rigid. Some wear their leaves like fur, their limbs laden with thick foliage that cast green light over the path.
She breaks off a sprig of lavender and crushes the head between her fingers. She brings it to her nose and breathes the scent in before dropping it in her coffee. The purple bud floats in the java sea.
A breeze sends the leaves swaying, surrounding Aris with a rushing sound like running water. There is a slight chill in the air. She looks up and notices a speck of orange on a leaf in one of the trees. It is almost imperceptible, but a beginning nonetheless. She looks at her watch.
Right on time.
Everything here runs on a tight schedule. The seasons and all they affect—the weather, the plants, the animals—follow the designed rhythm of the constructed ecosystem. Just as the Planner had intended. Callisto was modeled after the city of his childhood. It was the first to be created. The seat of all the councils. The most populous. The center of the Four Cities.
A young couple passes her, their black clothes crumpled from last night’s dalliance. Their hands are like tentacles around each other.
“A week,” she mumbles to herself as she sips her coffee.
A striking old woman with platinum hair catches her eye. She is sitting on a bench under a fan of lacy-leafed Japanese maples. In her cupped hands, a bird pecks at seeds. Mesmerized, Aris approaches her.
“Hello,” Aris says.
“Hello, dear,” the old lady says.
“It trusts you,” she says, staring at the bird in the old woman’s hands.
“He likes my seeds. They all do. Here, take some from the bag.” The old lady gives her an encouraging smile.
Aris finds a spot next to her and pours some seeds onto her open palm. A bird hops into her hand and begins pecking. Her face breaks into a wide smile.
“See, he trusts you too,” says the old lady.
Another couple walks by. One woman is dressed in a suit, the other in jeans and a T-shirt. They kiss and separate. The woman in jeans stops, turns, and runs back for another kiss. Aris raises her eyebrows.
“Three months if she tries really hard,” she says under her breath.
“What did you say, dear?” asks the old woman.
“Oh nothing,” she says, smiling. “Just a thing I do. I guess how long a couple will stay together. It’s fascinating how pairing seems a compulsion in some.”
The old lady laughs. “A compulsion is right.”
“It’s so outdated and irrelevant, don’t you think?”
Aris doesn’t understand why a person would waste an entire cycle on another. Coupling had once been useful to provide a stable environment to raise offspring. But bearing and raising the young is no longer a burden on the populace. Children are medically conceived and born at the Center of Discovery and Learning. Quality and quantity control. It’s vital to managing resources. Just enough. No excess, no waste.
“Oh, it’s not so irrelevant,” the old lady says. “Being in love is a wondrous thing.”
“But isn’t it a waste?”
“Why would you say that?”
“What’s the point when everything will be wiped away?” Aris says.
“One day when you find yourself in love, you will know exactly the point to it, dear.”
The old woman gestures for her to look across the way. On a bench under the shade of another maple tree sit a man and a woman. The woman leans her head against the man’s shoulder. Their hands intertwine like a pattern on a woven basket. He kisses her hair, inhaling her scent.
“That’s love,” says the old woman.
Aris looks at them. Sadness washes over her. It is like watching a drawing in sand. The tide will soon roll in, wiping it from existence. Her hand automatically goes to her watch. She does not look at it. She already knows.
Half a year.
All that’s left.
The elevator to the subway is packed, usual for a workday. The glass elevator, built into a corner of the building, gives her a clear view of the city block. Through the transparent floor she sees passersby moving along the crowded streets like dry leaves floating on streams.
One minute she sees them from a bird’s-eye view, the next their faces, then their feet before she disappears below ground. Her stomach sinks. Her ears pop. She shakes one ear with her fingers. She never gets used to the feeling of falling from a great height.
The elevator stops at the subway level, deep underground. The door opens to a busy intersection. Signs mark the directions to Europa, Lysithea, and Elara. All paths but to Elara are filled with people. No one ever goes there except for the Ceremony of the Dead. It was the last city the Planner erected and was still under construction when the bombs lit up the world. Its weather system is not regulated like the other three, making it the closest to the natural habitat of the Mojave Desert. Aris does not know how many people live there, but she can’t imagine the number to be high.
She heads toward the local train that travels within her city. On the platform, she finds her favorite circle. The sign “To Center Square” glows above her head. There are other circles like it, but she is partial to this one. It is assigned to a seat by the window toward the front of the train. She prefers sitting next to the window even if the scenery is just a long stretch of gray wall. On those mornings she finds it occupied, her mood is ruined for the rest of the day. She doesn’t know why.
A heavyset man bumps into her, pushing her slightly off her circle.
“Oh, pardon me,” he says.
She looks at him. His khaki shirt has a small purple dot on it. His gray hair needs combing. She has the urge to smooth it down with her hand. Silver-rimmed glasses decorate his round face, unnecessary when sight correction is done at each doctor’s visit.
He carries a briefcase, the type with multiple compartments. The weathered leather bag has a soft patina from regular use and the passage of time. It is an archaic item, like his glasses—earthly unlike most things of this time, which live in the clouds. They belong more in a
museum than on an elderly gentleman.
“Are you going to the Natural History Museum?” she asks.
“How did you—?”
“Just a guess. I work there.”
“What a coincidence. I have a meeting there this morning.”
“With Thane?”
“Yes! You’re quite a guesser,” the old man says.
“He’s the director.”
The train approaches. The commuters file onto it like ants entering the cavity of a dead snake. Aris goes to her seat by the window. The old man sits next to her and places his large briefcase in front of him.
“Hope you don’t mind. That way I won’t forget it when I get off,” he says. “My memory is not so good in old age.”
“Not at all. I’m Aris.” She gives him her hand.
He takes it. “Professor Jacob.”
“Professor Jacob? The one who wrote Manual of the Four Cities?”
“You know me?”
“Yes! Of course. I’ve been reading your book every night.”
“Everybody keeps telling me it’s my book.”
“It’s the best interpretation of the Planner’s ideology I’ve ever read.”
“It’s just rewriting his words, my dear. I don’t really think of it as mine.”
“I found the section about dreams thoroughly fascinating,” she says.
Professor Jacob smiles. “It’s a favorite subject. A never-ending search, you see. There are so many schools of thought on dreams.”
“So, which do you subscribe to?”
“Oh. Well, let’s see. One thought is that dreams are meaningless, random firings of neurons that happen when the body rests. Excess energy working its way out of the system.”
He notices the purple dot on his shirt. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes it to no effect.
“Another is that the brain uses dreams to work out problems the person encountered during the day, connecting them with solutions that the person may have overlooked. Or strengthening the knowledge they gained while awake.”
He licks the end of his handkerchief and rubs at the spot. It smears the dot, making it look worse. He gives up and puts away the handkerchief.
An odd expression crosses his face, and he leans in, his eyes hard and penetrating.
“There’s another, and this is a dangerous one. Some people believe that memories seep back through dreams. Some go as far as attempting to get back to their old lives using their dreams as guides, not caring about the consequences of their reckless pursuit.”
“Why is it dangerous?” she asks.
“Unearthing the past—even just believing it is possible—undermines Tabula Rasa, the system that holds us together. It could tear the fabric of our society apart.”
Professor Jacob’s eyes soften.
“Today is a gift. That’s why they call it the present,” he says in a lighter tone. “You must pardon me. I have a weakness for old, funny sayings. I can’t help myself.”
He doesn’t have to convince her that Tabula Rasa is necessary. She likes the idea of a blank slate. You can be whomever you want to be, four years at a time. Still, it’s hard to fathom how people chasing their dreams could be detrimental to the Four Cities. Dreams are not reality.
“Was there a question you asked? I’m sorry I don’t remember,” the professor says. He points a finger to his head. “Old age.”
She gives him a gentle smile. “I was just wondering what your belief on dreams is.”
“Ah. Well, I’m partial to thinking that dreams are a combination of synapses making connections and your brain trying to make sense of them. We humans have a need to find meaning in even the most random, insignificant thing,” he says. “Like our existence.”
The train slows. A flash of an image on the side of the subway wall catches her attention. Red. A flower maybe? She has seen it every day for as long as she can remember. Graffiti done by a brave and idiotic artist. She wonders about the probability of the artist being hit by a train as it passes. Brain splatter would make impactful art.
She looks down and sees a thin cut on her hand. It’s new and an angry pink. She doesn’t remember when she got it. She touches it gently.
“You have a wound,” Professor Jacob says.
“Just a scratch.”
“Here. Let me help.” He pulls out a small bandage from his wallet and places it on the cut.
“You keep that in your wallet?”
“I always do.”
“Why?” Aris asks.
He thinks about it. “I’m not sure. But it’s useful today.”
She stands up. “Here’s our stop, professor.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
She looks at her watch.
“I can take you to Thane’s office, if you’d like.”
“Are you sure that’s not too much of a bother?”
“Not at all. You would actually give me an excuse for being late.”
They get off the elevator at the street level. The sidewalk is busy with pedestrians. Just as Aris turns toward the Natural History Museum a block away, she hears shouting. It comes from across the street. She and everyone near her stop to look, transfixed by the unusual sight.
On the corner adjacent to them is a man. Sun-bleached blond and muscular. He’s shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice crazed and desperate—teetering between begging and threatening. His skin marks him as someone from Elara. Brown, with a thickness to it from time living under the harsh desert sun.
“How can you walk around like everything’s fine?” the man yells at a woman in a red coat, his hand reaching out toward her.
The woman startles. Her face flushes pink. She grips the front of her coat and rushes past.
“They took everything from us,” he hollers after her. “Our lives, our past, the people we love. All we have left are our dreams!”
A man in a suit, eyes fixed on his watch, ears plugged with headphones, walks toward the Elaran man, unaware of the trouble ahead. The angry man steps in front of him and grabs him by the collar.
“Stop looking at your stupid watch!” he screams. “It’s how they track your every move. Don’t wear it!”
The suited man cries out in surprise, as if confronted by a rabid animal. He struggles out of the man’s grip and runs off. People begin crossing over to Aris’s side of the street to avoid him.
“They stole our memories and left us with nothing!” he shouts at all of them. “They can’t keep doing this to us. They can’t take away everyone we care about. It must be stopped. We must fight back!”
Aris has never seen anyone behaving this out of control in public before. He reminds her of the angry bear in the museum. She looks down and sees her arm has looped around Professor Jacob’s. When she did that, she does not know.
A white car with flashing lights whooshes past them. It must belong to someone in the councils. Only officials are allowed personal transports. The car comes to a stop in front of the angry man. Its door opens, and a man steps out. He wears a brown fedora, reminding Aris of the old black-and-white movies she saw during the Old World’s cinema festival.
The next scene unfolds as if it is from one of the films. The fedora man approaches the angry man slowly and deliberately. The angry man steps back until his body hits a column of the building. For a moment, Aris wonders if he is going to hurt the newcomer.
In a quick move, the man in the fedora grabs his hand as if wanting to shake it. Instead, he puts a silver bangle on the angry man’s wrist. Instantly, the angry man becomes as silent and still as the column behind him. His rage dissipates into the air like smoke.
Aris feels a tug at her arm.
“Wait.” She tries to pull away. But she is too late. Professor Jacob is crossing the street, taking her with him.
“Officer Scyll
a,” the professor calls.
The officer stops in mid step and turns slowly. His face is stern.
“Professor Jacob.” His voice sounds stilted, as if the professor is the last person he had wished to see.
“This man is under the care of the Interpreter Center,” says Professor Jacob. There’s no trace of the jovial man she had met earlier.
Officer Scylla looks from the professor to the Elaran man who is staring ahead with glazed, sleepy eyes. “Is he now?”
“His name is Bodie. He needs to be taken to the Center so he may finish his treatment.”
The muscles in Officer Scylla’s face twitch. “Thank you for informing me. I will contact the Interpreter.”
“Very well,” the professor says.
Officer Scylla walks off. The Elaran man follows obediently, his footsteps sluggish, as if he is in a trance. Aris watches them go with an uneasy feeling.
“Was that the police?” she asks Professor Jacob.
“Have you never seen one before?”
She shakes her head. “I know they exist. Just never met one.”
“That’s Officer Scylla of Station Eighteen.”
“He doesn’t seem to like you.”
Professor Jacob laughs. The amiable man is back. “We at the Interpreter Center make life a little harder for him. He’d be happy if he could just keep the troublemakers locked up for a night. But we believe you must get rid of the root cause.”
“What’s that?”
“Dreams,” the professor says. “Remember I told you about the people who believe dreams are memories? That man is one of them. It’s a form of mental illness. But don’t worry. With the help of an interpreter who’s trained to interpret dreams, we can target and erase the harmful ones. He’ll be fine again. It’s like a partial Tabula Rasa—but for dreams.”
She had seen the Interpreter Center near her favorite picnic spot—a gleaming white building surrounded by a sweeping green lawn and forest. A solitary inorganic object in the middle of life. But she had never heard of the procedure until now. Up until Professor Jacob told her, she did not even know that dreams could be dangerous. How could they be? They’re not real.
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