Anomaly

by Krista McGee

  That conversation was repeated a dozen times in a dozen ways. Right before he left, Berk made me promise not to ask any more questions. “No one here can know you have them.” I didn’t like that, but Berk was so serious, so concerned, I had to agree.

  Will he be there tonight? The night I escaped, Dr. Grenz said the moon viewing was an opportunity to introduce Berk to us as a Scientist and not a pod mate. I hope he will be there. My heart races with the thought. From wanting to throw things to wanting to feel Berk’s touch—I am very sick. This is far worse than Rhen’s dripping. But thinking of Berk calms me. Recalling his touch makes me relax. I finally fall asleep thinking of his eyes. The gold flecks float in my dreams.

  “You overslept.” Rhen taps my shoulder and I jump. Overslept? Rubbing my eyes, I recall my thoughts from last night. I only slept a few hours. My body needed more. Of course I overslept.

  “The Monitor is calling for you.” Rhen grabs a uniform from my closet. “Hurry. You cannot afford to be late.”

  I tear off my sleeping shirt and pull on my uniform—the white shirt and white pants I can hardly ever manage to keep clean for an entire day. I think, not for the first time, that the Clothing Specialists would do better to make black or brown uniforms. Not white. But the Scientists love white. The bedcovers, the floors, the walls—everything is white.

  “Piano today.” I slip on my white shoes and stand as the Monitor enters and hands me a white folder. It is heavier than normal. New music.

  Piano and new music. My fatigue is replaced by excitement. I am only allowed access to the piano once or twice a month. It is housed with the other instruments in the performance pod. When I was younger and learning how to play the instruments, I was allowed to go there once or twice a week. I love the feel of the piano keys, the rich sound of the magnificent instrument filling the room. I especially love when the Monitors leave me alone. The soundproofed walls afford me freedom I don’t have anywhere else, freedom to explore new sounds, new rhythms.

  We exit our pod and walk east. The Botanists have planted tulips this month. They line the walkway. One of the Botanists is adjusting the watering system—one of the many inventions Dr. Spires was responsible for. He recognized the need for plants and trees in our State and created a fertile ground so those plants and trees could grow.

  We pass Pod B. Our Monitors are from this pod. No longer forced to spend their days with their learning pads, they work. From the panels, I see the gathering chamber filled with desks as the Clerical Technicians complete their task of monitoring and updating the computers that run the many facets of the State. An Announcer stands beside the Pod B greenhouse, speaking to the camera held by a Screen Specialist. I know what tonight’s announcement will be about. Everyone is doing what he or she was designed to do. Here in this pod, in ours, in Pod A, and, in a few more years, in the pod that will come after us.

  Everything is ordered and smooth. I should find that comforting.

  I don’t.

  We reach the performance pod. The Monitor presses a hand to the screen by the double doors and they slide open. I love the smell of this pod. It is the smell of music—of reeds and oils and brass. The grand piano sits in the far corner. My fingers itch to touch its keys. To my relief, the Monitor excuses herself. She must return to Pod C to accompany Gen to her mechanics class. The Monitor walks to the screen beside the door and types in the command that will lock me in here until she returns. I have no desire to try an escape from here. I would live here if I were allowed. The double doors open and she exits. I am alone with my music.

  I place the white folder on a music stand. I will open it later. For now, I flex my fingers and position myself on the piano bench. My feet tap the pedals. I play a simple scale to warm up. My fingers touch every key in a cascade of sound, my hands crossing each other again and again as I go up and down, up and down. Sometimes it feels as if my fingers make their own choices. They go where they wish and I simply follow, allowing the music to speak through me. I play my frustration with Dr. Spires’s death and the Scientists’ lies in covering it up. I play my longing to see Berk again, to feel his touch on my arm. I wish his hands were the keys of the piano. I play my fear for Rhen, fear that she will speak to the Monitors about her illness and I won’t be there to stop her. I play my questions about life and death, my doubts that all the Scientists tell us is true.

  I must have played for a long time because I hear the door click and the Monitor returns.

  The white folder is still on the music stand. Untouched.

  “You are to record this.” The Monitor opens the folder and hands me the music. I rarely see paper music. Usually I am sent music on my learning pad. “This was discovered in the records room. A primitive composer named Bach. He was considered a genius. The Anthropologists want to analyze the composition and see what they can learn about his thinking patterns.”

  I nod and take the music from the Monitor carefully. It is yellowed and feels as if it could disintegrate in my hands. I lay out the pages in order. I understand most of the words in the title, but I don’t understand their meaning: “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” I do not have time to think about those words, though. I need to practice the piece and then record it. I scan the notes on the pages, the song coming to life in my mind.

  It is beautiful.

  I begin to play and a lump forms in my throat. I know I am playing someone else’s feelings. But this composer isn’t like me. He isn’t asking questions. He is answering them. I am hearing the answers. With every measure, every chord, I hear his thoughts, I hear something I have never heard before. What is it? I don’t know. But I do know it’s there. The answers to my questions are there, in this music, written by this primitive man so many centuries before this one.

  I can’t stop the tears from forming. I can’t stop my heart from racing. My fingers are playing the notes, and the notes are speaking to me, reaching out from the page and squeezing my heart, my lungs. I can’t breathe but I keep playing, from one page to the next. I hear myself sobbing but I can’t stop. I can’t stop playing, can’t stop crying. My tears are cleansing, freeing. They are right. This music is right. I am not here. I am somewhere else. I feel like I am above myself, watching myself play, weep, laugh. This is beautiful, painful. I want it to end and I don’t want it to end.

  And then it is over. I cannot stop myself. I fall from the piano bench onto my knees. My sobs are absorbed into the cloth walls. The Monitor has left the room. I want to get up, to play more. But I cannot stop crying.

  Finally, I am spent, lying on the floor, clutching the music in my hands. I don’t even recall taking it with me. A Monitor stands above me. She is joined by three others.

  “I suspected she was an anomaly,” my Monitor says. The others nod in agreement. I cannot even react to what they are saying. I am still in the music, playing it in my head, trying to translate the answers to the questions.

  “Stand up.” One of the other Monitors folds her arms. Mine is speaking into her communications pad.

  “We need an emergency transport at the performance pod.” She speaks quietly. “Code 4.”

  Asta was a Code 4. I am a Code 4.

  Anomaly.

  Taken away.

  Suddenly, the gravity of my situation invades my mind, pushing the music out. Panic seeps into my bloodstream. I jump up.

  “No.” I force myself to breathe, to be logical. “Don’t take me. It was just a momentary loss of control. It was the music.” I point to the papers strewn on the floor, feeling guilty for pointing the blame at something so beautiful. But I want to live. More than anything, I want to live.

  “I have been watching you for some time.” My Monitor reaches for my arm. “You rush through lessons. You argue. Your emotions are beyond what is acceptable.”

  The other Monitor nods. “Anomaly.”

  “No.” How can they be so calm? They are sending me away from everything and everyone I know, and they behave as if this is just another assignment
. Run the track. Clean the cube. Leave. “Please. I am begging you.”

  “We do not beg.” The door opens and Officers enter.

  I will not let them take me. I am screaming, my arms pushing the Officers away. I try to run, but one of the Officers grabs my shoulders. Another reaches into his bag, pulls out a syringe. I fight, twist, yell. But the needle comes closer, aimed at my neck.

  Music plays—“Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”—and the room spins. I see Berk and Rhen, I see Asta. And then . . . I see nothing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  You have one hour.” The voice seems far away, coming from underneath a pile of bedcovers. I try to open my eyes, but they are too heavy. I lift just enough to see tiny slits full of bright lights. They fall shut.

  A hand touches my shoulder. Its fingers feel strange—knotted and curled, like they cannot straighten.

  “Hello, Thalli.” This is a new voice. I have never heard a voice like his. It sounds like a garden full of rocks. Like speaking requires effort. And yet, the voice seems kind. The touch calms me, loosens the weights on top of my eyes.

  “My name is John.” His hand remains on my shoulder, but I feel him sit beside me. A chair scrapes against the floor.

  I try to open my eyes again. I am able to force my eyelids up, but the lights are so bright. I can’t focus on anything. I want to bring my hand to my face, but my hand won’t move. I am strapped to this sleeping platform. I kick my legs. They are bound as well. The room comes into focus and I remember everything. The music, the tears, the Officers, the syringe.

  “Where . . . ?” My throat burns with the effort to speak. My mouth is dry. So dry. I lick my lips. They feel dry, cracked. How long have I been out?

  John’s hand rubs my shoulder. “You are in level H of the Scientists’ quarters.”

  My mind reaches back to geography lessons. The Scientists’ quarters are located at the easternmost quadrant of the State. Like all of the State, it was built below what was called a mountain in the prewar world. I see the map in my mind. There is no level H. There are levels A–E. Going any farther down is impossible.

  “No . . . level . . . H.” My throat is on fire. I have so many questions, but I will never be able to ask them all. I try to swallow. Nothing.

  John touches a screen by his chair. My sleeping platform inches forward. My head spins with the movement. I close my eyes. I hear his fingers tap against the screen again, then I feel something cool against my lips.

  “Just a sip,” John says as the water slips into my mouth. I want to grab the cup, gulp it down. But as the water hits my stomach, I feel sick. “Deep breath, Thalli.”

  I open my eyes again. John is even older than Dr. Spires. His hair is completely white, thick. He has white hair on his cheeks and chin and upper lip. It falls down upon the front of his shirt—a shirt that has a pattern I have never seen, with colors and buttons on the front. His eyebrows are bushy, gray and white. His nose is large and his eyes are so blue they are almost transparent. Every inch of his face is covered with wrinkles. When he smiles, there are even more. I have never seen anything so ugly.

  “What are you doing to me?” The water is giving me some strength. I pull against my restraints. If I can get up, I can fight this man. I can escape.

  John removes his hand from my shoulder. “I am not your captor.”

  He speaks with a strange accent. Almost musical.

  I look at him again. “Then who are you?”

  “I am like you.”

  “Malformed?”

  John laughs. The sound of it hits the walls and echoes back in my ears. I have only heard laughter a few times in my life. I like the sound. “No, my dear. We are not malformed.”

  “But that is why I was taken away.” I am strapped to this sleeping platform because I am an anomaly. Because I am a Code 4. I will be annihilated.

  John sighs and places an ancient hand over mine, covering the restraint. “Tell me about yourself.”

  No one has ever asked me that. No one ever needed to. I have grown up with the same people. I have never met anyone new. Never seen anyone that old. I look into the old man’s eyes. They are different. Kind. I have seen that look before—in Berk’s eyes. John leans back and waits. He is not rushed, not demanding. He is curious. About me.

  My story comes pouring out. My music, my rebellion, even my escape. Berk. Bach. My breakdown.

  Through the whole story, John listens, nods. He wipes the tears from my eyes that I cannot reach and that I cannot stop. He doesn’t speak. Not with words. But I can tell he is interested in my story. That I am important to him. I cannot imagine why.

  When I am done, I am exhausted. I have no more words, no more tears. John’s hand remains on mine as I sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  She is scheduled for annihilation tomorrow morning.” The deep voice wakes me, but I don’t want to open my eyes. John’s comforting hand is gone. Was it even there to begin with? Perhaps John was a hallucination, a result of whatever pharmaceuticals were pumped into my body through the syringe.

  The door opens. Footsteps stop just a few feet from my sleeping platform. I keep my eyes closed. I am sure I will learn more if they believe I am still asleep.

  “I have a request, sir.”

  My heart begins to race. Berk.

  “Yes?”

  “I have never seen an anomaly of this type.” Berk seems to stutter at the word anomaly. Or maybe that is just my imagination as well. It is hard to know what is real and what is not anymore. “Could we postpone her annihilation so I can perform some tests?”

  “What kind of tests?”

  “I have a theory.” Berk’s voice is closer. I feel him standing beside me. “I have been testing on mice in the laboratory, and I think I am ready for a human subject.”

  I force myself not to scream out. Berk wants to use me as a science project? I thought he was an ally. He held me. He protected me from getting caught when I escaped.

  “What is the theory?” The Scientist sounds wary.

  “I believe we can correct malformations.” Berk’s finger brushes mine. An accident? “It seems a waste to annihilate those who have been created and trained to aid their pods. Thalli is Pod C’s only Musician. I know the benefit of music on the brain and on productivity. What if we can correct her malformation and reintroduce her to the pod?”

  “That hypothesis is certainly intriguing. But how many resources would be spent in carrying it out?”

  Berk’s finger brushes mine again. Definitely not an accident. “I believe the resources spent would be fewer than what could potentially be lost as a result of her absence.”

  “But if you fail, those resources are wasted.”

  “And if I succeed, this can be repeated on other malformations. The need for annihilation could be drastically reduced.”

  I have never heard people discuss different opinions in this way. That is not allowed in the pods. Arguing is one of the “clues” my Monitors had to prove I was an anomaly. Yet Berk has no problem arguing his position with this Scientist. And the Scientist is not angry. He seems to be actually considering Berk’s suggestion.

  The Scientist takes a full minute to respond. “I will give you two months. You begin now.”

  “Yes, sir.” I can hear the smile in Berk’s voice. I close my eyes to keep the tears contained.

  I listen for the Scientist to leave the room. His feet beat a steady rhythm as he walks to the door. When the door clicks shut, I open my eyes.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice sounding like a broken violin string.

  Berk looks at the screen by my sleeping platform. A warning look. “Thalli, you will be undergoing a series of tests over the next few weeks.”

  The screen is also a listening device. Berk is telling me not to say anything that would endanger either of us. “I understand.”

  Berk’s fingers brush mine. The device cannot see. “We will begin as soon as you feel you are able.”
>
  “I am ready now.”

  Berk smiles. “I’m afraid you are still very weak.” He presses the screen to lift the platform and the room begins to spin.

  “Yes.” I close my eyes to keep from getting sick. “You are right. Of course. How long have I been here?”

  Berk’s eyes look sad. He traces my jaw with the tips of his fingers. “One week.”

  My eyes widen. “A week?” What was in that syringe?

  “You were considered a threat to yourself and others.” He glances at the screen again. “But we are going to fix that.”

  I play along. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

  Berk smiles at me. The room is spinning again. “Just doing my job.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I am in a different room. The restraints have been removed. My sleeping platform is more comfortable, the walls are slightly less white. A tray of delicious-smelling food is beside me. A couch sits against the opposite wall. My violin lies on the couch.

  This might be a test: food or music. The Scientists could be watching. I do not care. I sit up, fighting the vertigo, my fingers desperate for my instrument, my mind already creating the music: mysterious, frightening, wonderful.

  The violin fits under my chin, my left hand caresses the strings, my right hand holds the bow. I don’t think. I just play. Strains of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” are woven into my song. Though I do not fully understand why, I know that song is for me.

  My legs are weak. I sit on the couch. But I keep playing. I play until my arms refuse to hold the violin. Against my will, I lay it back down and return to my sleeping platform. The food is cold, but I have never had a meal that tasted better.

  The reality of my situation hits me. I was unconscious for a week. I was going to be annihilated. Berk rescued me by turning me into a science project.

  I finish my meal and stand, my legs feeling stronger. I am lonely. I miss Rhen. I never thought about how much we talked until now, when I have no one to talk to. She has always been there, right across the cube. Even though she is perfect, she still treated me like an equal. I am sure she knew about my abnormalities. But she never reprimanded me, never criticized. Why did I not appreciate her more? I wish I could have told her good-bye, thanked her for being my friend. Will I ever get to see her again?