Clara stifled a laugh. How could she be expected to take advice from someone with a broken mind?
“If you want to stay sane,” Bertie continued, “do this one thing: Never forget how to ask why.”
“That seems simple enough.”
“No it isn’t. Stop laughing at me, Clara! Listen to me! If you never pay attention to anything else I say, at least hear me now. Asking why really isn’t simple at all—especially with these people. They’re constantly trying to keep our minds drained of everything except what they want. So you’ve got to protect your mind by filling it with what you want. Ask a new question every day, and try to find the answer. Don’t let them answer it for you; answer it for yourself.”
~
Miss Smith was just exiting Tower Block 707 when she encountered the Food Distributor in the foyer, with his cartload of ration boxes. “Ah, good morning!” she babbled excitedly. “I’m just off for my blood contribution.”
“Hm,” the Distributor grunted.
“It really is a good idea, you know,” Miss Smith gushed. “I still remember the time when blood contributions were voluntary, not required, and the centers were always having shortages. Which reminds me—I have some excellent news.” She held up an envelope. “Today I am contacting the Population Center about one of my eggs.”
“Hm. So you donated your eggs. Very remarkable.”
It really wasn’t remarkable at all. Most Pangaeans donated their eggs and sperm. It was not required, but it was expected—like pledging allegiance to the Benefactors, or sending your children to the Public School.
“I want the Center to fertilize one of my eggs,” Miss Smith continued, “I’m not getting any younger, you know—might as well have the child now while my eyes are sharp and my hair isn’t grey. Not completely grey, at least. Soon you’ll have to make room in your ration truck for one extra box!” she giggled excitedly.
“I hate children,” the Distributor snapped.
Miss Smith jumped. “What?”
“I hate children,” he repeated. His beady eyes glared at her. “Dirty, nasty things. Always shouting and screaming. I don’t understand why anyone would want one.”
“Surely you don’t mean that!” Miss Smith protested, her eyes hopeful. “Children aren’t pests! They’re the future of Pangaea. How can you expect the country to survive without a future?”
“Pangaea will always have a future. They don’t need my help. They don’t need any of our help. Think about it: if the Population Center gets worried that not enough people are having kids, they’ll just take some of those eggs out of their freezer and mix it with some sperm, and presto—they got themselves a world’s worth of people in a jar.”
“And who will raise this ‘world of people’?” Miss Smith demanded. “Who will teach them about life?”
“The same people who teach ‘em about life now. The Public Mothers can raise ‘em. No trouble for us.”
“Well, I want the ‘trouble’! And it’s downright rude of you to be commentating like this on how I run my life. And as for you—you would do well to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”
3.
“The beehive.”
Dr. Lucusta rapped the blackboard, where he had scrawled the word efficiency. “The beehive is the ideal model of efficiency, teamwork, and equality. Every worker in his place, carrying out his perfect task—all in perfect synchrony. But once you take a closer look, you’ll see that it’s not so equal after all. You see, even that perfect hive of equality has its queen.” He looked directly at his classroom of eighth graders.
“That’s where you come in,” he continued. “The Benefactors. Or should I say, the future Benefactors. Recall, my children, how your ancestors were the first to achieve true freedom for our nation. The first to dismantle that hateful republic.”
The children nodded proudly. It truly was an honor to know that such noble blood throbbed within their hearts.
“Remember the chaos of those days, remember the unbearable confusion! Every man wanted to structure his own Reality, and yet he wanted to restructure everyone else’s Reality too. It would never work.
“But then the Benefactors stepped up to the rescue, and offered to restore the world: not to former glory, for she never had truly known glory, but to new glory. To her first taste of utopia. Thus from the ruins of our planet, the Benefactors built Pangaea: Reunited our people together, with bread and freedom for all. But who to distribute it? Who to oversee that no man had too much, or too little? This task of equity could not be left to the individual’s own devices; that had been tried time and again, and failed. Always the too rich, and always the too poor—some mouths too full, and other mouths too dry. And so the Benefactors pledged to oversee the allotment of the bounty, so that there would always be enough. They knew that there cannot be ideal equality without someone to distribute the resources accordingly. This most hallowed task of equal distribution remains yours today. You assign the grain; you assign the jobs. You maintain the order. And only one restriction you must keep: to never reveal your identity to the People.”
One boy raised his hand. He was rather pale and sickly, with his left foot bound in a metal brace.
“Yes, Geoffrey?” Professor Lucusta said.
“How can we be sure we get it right, that we assign a person to the job he wants?” Geoffrey asked.
Professor Lucusta shook his head. “You’re not looking at the right angle, Geoffrey: focus on the whole; focus on the collective. If you want the hive to function, you’ve got to think in terms of the greater good.” He pointed to his watch. “Look at this watch; imagine if one cog decided to go his own way, instead of working with the other cogs. My watch would cease to function! The same goes for society.”
“But we aren’t a watch!” Geoffrey disagreed. “We’re human beings! We have different preferences, different wants—”
“—Then suppress those preferences,” Professor Lucusta interrupted. “In our society, all your needs are met: food, shelter, medicine…it’s all here! The only thing we ask is that you play the role we need. Such a small price to pay for happiness!”
“But how can someone be happy, if he isn’t doing what he wants?” Geoffrey demanded.
Professor Lucusta’s glared sternly at Geoffrey. “Don’t be so cynical, boy,” he said sharply. “As I said, one crooked cog can break the entire watch.” The bell rang, and Professor Lucusta gathered up his books from the desk. “We will continue this discussion tomorrow. Class dismissed.”
As Geoffrey stood up to leave, he heard a few snickers behind him.
“Square,” someone whispered.
“Prude,” another voice giggled.
Geoffrey rolled his eyes. He was used to the insults by now, and he had long since learned to keep to himself. And once he got used to it, being alone wasn’t really so difficult; the mind could invent infinite worlds and adventures to keep him company, to bring him strength. As long as he had those dreams to comfort him, he had no need for reality to be loving or comforting.
~
Geoffrey’s fingers skipped across the piano keys, but his eyes were focused on the book of fairytales before him.
“That’s a fine waltz, Geoffrey,” Grandfather remarked from behind his desk. He removed his glasses and smiled at his grandson. “Who wrote it?”
“I did.”
“Wonderful!” Grandfather glanced at the book, resting on the music rack before Geoffrey. “But then what’s that book for?”
“It’s not music. It’s the fairytales book, from Mother. It just…helps me think, somehow.” His eyes glanced at the portrait of his parents, hung above the fireplace.
“I miss them too,” Grandfather murmured.
When Geoffrey was only two years old, his parents had died in a car crash. He had no memories of them; he only knew them through what Grandfather had told him. Mother was Grandfather’s daughter; she was tall and beautiful with red-blonde curls, and she loved ice-skating and dan
cing. She had met Dad at one of Grandfather’s parties; they fell in love at first sight, and married just two months later. Three years later, Geoffrey was born.
Geoffrey knew very little of the car crash story, because Grandfather refused to discuss it much. As far as Geoffrey knew, the car had been driving on a road slick with ice, and careened over a cliff into the ocean. They were killed instantly. Geoffrey had not been in the car at the time; he was at home with his grandfather. For this reason, Geoffrey felt perpetually indebted to Grandfather, and he regarded the old man as his real-life guardian angel.
But even without memories of his parents, Geoffrey clung to whatever objects they had left behind—including the book of fairytales that lay before him now. The book had belonged to his mother; it was a very old copy, filled with stains and crumbs. It must have been from at least the 15th century, possibly older; the last few pages had stuck together, and Geoffrey never dared open these for fear of destroying them. Grandfather had bought Geoffrey newer copies of the fairytales book, but Geoffrey always preferred the older version best. Sometimes he even plucked crumbs from the pages, wondering which had come from his mother’s cookies.
“Geoffrey, please go to your room,” Grandfather abruptly said, standing up from his desk.
“Am I in trouble?” Geoffrey asked, bewildered. He closed the piano.
“No, not at all. But I have an important meeting, and I don’t want my guests to be disturbed. Please go to your room—just for an hour.”
Geoffrey limped away down the hall toward his bedroom. Grandfather was always hosting these meetings, and always sending Geoffrey away to his room while the meetings took place. This odd arrangement never bothered Geoffrey when he was little; but as he grew older, he had become progressively interested in those secret meetings. I should listen to them talk, Geoffrey thought excitedly. It wouldn’t be so terribly wrong if I just listened, and didn’t tell anyone what I heard.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway downstairs.
“This way please,” a maid called. “The master is waiting.”
Grandfather’s guests had arrived.
I must see them! Geoffrey decided. Maybe they’re diplomats, or movie stars, or famous singers. Maybe they’re even from the Outsider Territory. He knelt down on the hallway floor, and crawled along the wall until he reached the staircase landing. He peered through the carved wooden bars, to the foyer below.
A delivery man, with a large Styrofoam box on his shoulder, was just exiting the foyer into the side hallway that led to the kitchen.
A delivery man? So that was Grandfather’s important guest? What a disappointment.
“Pardon, Sir Geoffrey,” a stiff voice said.
Geoffrey glanced up. Towering over him, tall and straight as a black-and-white pole, was the butler Marcus. “Pardon, Sir,” Marcus repeated, coughing uncomfortably.
“Um—” Geoffrey faltered. “I…I dropped something. I thought it rolled over here.”
“Shall I help you find it, sir?” Marcus asked.
“No, no—that’s quite all right. Thank you.”
“Very good, sir. Oh, and sir—”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be sure to not tell the master that you…er…lost something up here.”
Geoffrey smiled. “Thank you, Marcus. You’re a good friend.”
Marcus bowed politely and continued on down the hallway.
Geoffrey, for his part, headed away towards his bedroom. So much for an interesting guest, he thought sourly.
After at least two hours passed, he decided the meeting was likely over. He could already smell the roast beef and potatoes wafting up from the kitchen. But as he headed downstairs, Geoffrey braced himself for what was coming. He knew that Grandfather would be in a very sour mood after that meeting, because the visitors often didn’t agree with the old man. Most of those people wanted to try their own new ideas; but Grandfather only wanted to try his ideas. “Uniform rule, Geoffrey,” Grandfather had said, “Uniform rule is key to keeping order. Any ideas that conflict with our own—well, those must be discouraged. For the betterment of the whole, you understand.” He would only fund people who agreed to conform to his plan. So, why would this meeting be any different?
With a deep breath, Geoffrey opened the dining room door.
“Hello, Geoffrey!” Grandfather cried happily. He was seated at the far end of the dining room table. Before him rested a huge plate, piled high with roast beef and vegetables. “Have a seat, boy! You look like you’re getting too thin. Marcus—fetch Geoffrey some of that German chocolate cake.”
Geoffrey was shocked. “Cake before supper? Are you—are you sure you’re all right?”
“Never better in my life, boy!” Grandfather laughed, his eyes dancing. “Ah, here comes your cake. Eat up, my boy.”
Geoffrey stared at his plate, piled five inches thick with chocolate cake. What had gotten into Grandfather? Had he lost his mind? Geoffrey glanced at the old man. No, he looked well enough. In fact, if it were possible, Grandfather seemed even more vigorous than he had that afternoon before the meeting. A healthy color flushed the old man’s wrinkled cheeks; his dark eyes sparkled with fresh vigor.
Well, whatever that meeting had been about, Geoffrey was glad to see it had done his grandfather so much good. Without further worry, he began to shovel chocolate cake into his mouth.
~
Clara stumbled on one of the stones, but managed to catch a nearby tree before she fell. The hillside was very steep and rocky, but she did not care. The view was too beautiful to care about anything—everything shrouded in the pink light of dusk, and the wind gently rustling through the trees. If she could just make it to the top of the hill, she knew the Answer would be there. She had seen it before, although she could not remember where or when.
Suddenly the distance seemed to melt away, and within moments, Clara had alighted at the top of the hill, as though the wind had taken her up on its wings and carried her.
At the top was a perfect circle of stones, and in the center was a large pit. Clara approached it, and glanced down into the depths of the pit, but she could not discern where it ended. It might have gone for miles into the earth, or perhaps even straight through to the other side—
A scream sounded.
And then another.
But it was not coming from the pit—
Clara’s eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright in her bed. The dream had ended, but the screams continued, even louder now than before. “Bertie!” she called. “Are you all right?”
It wasn’t Bertie, though. The screams were coming from somewhere across the room. As Clara’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed one of the girls in a bed across the room, thrashing about and screaming wildly. Already a crowd of other girls had gathered round the bunk to see what was happening. Just as Clara was climbing down her bed to join them, the door opened, and a burst of light flooded the room. Clara paused at the edge of her bed and did not move further; if someone saw her, they might punish her for being awake at this hour.
Several people entered. Clara could not see who they were; but as they walked towards the shouting girl, the other girls quickly stepped aside and let the strange group approach the bunk. A moment later, the screaming fell silent. As the group walked back towards the door, they were carrying something in their arms—it seemed to be bundle of blankets.
Bertie leaned over the edge of Clara’s bed. “It happens to everyone here, Clara,” she whispered. “Almost no one escapes it.”
“Escapes what?” Clara asked. “You mean nightmares? Everyone gets them. It’s not a big deal.”
“A nightmare?” Bertie scoffed. “You honestly think she was just having a bad dream?”
“Well, obviously,” Clara mumbled, stifling a yawn. “I have strange dreams too, but I don’t let them scare me. None of it is real. It’s all in your imagination—you can destroy it just by opening your eyes. I was having a strange dream myself, when you woke me.” Clara tugg
ed her blanket over her head, and shut her eyes.
But then the blanket was pulled back, and Clara found herself staring up into Bertie’s panicked face. “What was it?” Bertie demanded. “What were you dreaming about?”
“Shut up!” an angry voice shouted across the room.
Clara sighed irritably. “Nothing, Bertie,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter. I’m exhausted! Let me go to bed!”
“The black hole, wasn’t it?” Bertie pressed. “You saw the black hole.”
Clara was shocked. “How did you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you saw it, and what it means…”
“What? What does it mean?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Bertie said. She rubbed her eyes tiredly. “None of you ever understand! No matter what I say, no matter what I do. Here, you have only two options: go mad, or break apart to survive. Most of you go mad; I chose to break apart. So now, I won’t waste your time, or mine. I will not discuss; I will only act.” She stared up at the ceiling, as though in deep thought. “Tell me a story, Clara,” she said abruptly.
This last speech was so confusing, Clara hardly knew how to respond. Just when she thought Bertie was relatively normal, the girl began speaking in riddles again. And at this hour, Clara was in no mood to decipher riddles. “No story, Bertie,” Clara grumbled, pulling the cover over her head. “I’m exhausted. Tell yourself a story.”
“No,” Bertie insisted. “I want you to tell me a story.”
“I don’t know any stories, Bertie!” Clara huffed from beneath her covers. “Leave me alone. Go to sleep!”
“Clara, please. I need you to make up a story for me. I can’t go to bed unless you tell me at least part of one.”
Clara sighed angrily, but she threw the blanket off her head. If she didn’t tell a story of some kind, Bertie would never be quiet, and Clara would never get to sleep. “All right,” Clara began irritably. “I’ll tell you one. Part of one.”
Bertie nodded.
“Once there was a bird…”
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