by Jaclyn Lewis
She almost stops there, but senses a question forming in my expression so she finishes.
“In six years I haven’t been able to go back, but I do send money home and that means something.” Her voice trails off as she remembers the life she had—the life that must feel like it’s slipping away more and more each day.
“I’m sorry.” Are the only words I can muster.
She pretends to ignore the awkward silence. “Well, that’s a brief history of where you’ll work. It is a great little community that CGC has set up for you here. There’s plenty to do when you aren’t at work. You’ll need to take advantage of your downtime—no one expects you to be a robot.”
“Well, at least you set me at ease about the robot thing.” I say with a nervous giggle. Little does she know that this has been a real concern of mine since I woke up. “So you are like a—‘nurse tattoo artist’?”
She offers a weak laugh for my equally weak joke. “Actually, I’m a nurse first. I just do this as a hobby.” She smacks her gum and continues working. She begins to sing along to a tune that’s playing in the room signaling the end of our conversation. I try to sit motionless and I don’t ask any more questions. I don’t even know what I would ask now.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I know she is telling me to look in a mirror and admire her handiwork. A beautiful and artistic snowflake adorns my right cheekbone. It is blue and doesn’t take up a lot of space. There’s an odd sensation that it fits me all too perfectly—maybe even better than a tree.
In my mind I’m strong and rooted like an oak tree. But the truth is…I don’t know what I am. Perhaps I’m just transient and fragile like a snowflake—always dependent on the cold to flourish.
She informs me that there’s a small chip behind the apex of the snowflake that was placed there before I was “awakened”. It is scanned at every doorway and must account for the beep I keep hearing. It allows me access to certain parts of the complex and not others.
I feel like a prisoner on house arrest. I know what an ankle bracelet is and this device doesn’t seem all that different. There’s something unsettling about this place I now call “home”, but I don’t tell the woman. Instead I just say “thank you” and proceed out of the exit heading toward the “salon”.
There’s another beep when I walk into the salon and I wonder if I will ever get used to that noise. A hairdresser is just sweeping up the mane of black that must have come off her last client. She has an unusually large nose and very purple hair that is braided down her back. It reminds me of a show horse.
She asks me what I want to do with my locks and I say, “Cut it. Cut it short.” I can’t stand the straggly strands on my face. She gives me a book to look at to help me decide which style I want while she finishes sweeping.
“I really don’t care. Just cut it.” I tell her.
When she comes to get me, I look at her and notice that she has the same tattoo on her face as me. Hairdressers are known to be talkers so I pepper her with my questions.
“So what’s Earth like these days?”
“Well, I’ve never been there—at least that I remember. Like you, I volunteered for the program here and I have no real memory of my life before. But they tell me things are pretty bad there. ‘Death is everywhere and what was once beautiful has turned into a wasteland.’ Blah blah blah. Hard to care when you don’t remember, right?” She’s one of those girls who snorts when she laughs.
She goes on. “This place is kind of a wasteland too, but we do have some good things at least. And Pavana is awesome! Just wait until you get to visit there—it will really take your breath away.”
“So they tell me I’m in the diamond program. Do you know much about that?”
“Not very much. It gets really hot outside here so I know you’ll be working in a mine somewhere and you’ll probably get really sunburned. Diamonds are like a currency on Earth now so that’s the purpose of the mines—it gives CGC something to trade with. They also sell Pavana’s water and produce.” She continues clipping away at my hair. The room is silent for a few minutes.
“Do you like living here?” I need her to answer this question honestly and I stare at her from the mirror. She stops snipping and looks at me for a long time—frozen and unsure of what to say.
“That’s a hard question to answer.” She thinks for a few seconds. “I do like it. Our lives are so planned out for us—sometimes it makes me wonder if there is more. But I don’t know. So I just get up every morning and come to work—do what needs to be done.”
I thought I had more questions for her, but her last answer has sent my mind reeling in a dozen different directions. It seems like if I loved someone on Earth I would be able to remember it.
Love. At first there’s only darkness in my mind as I try to call up the word. Then I realize that the images that come to mind are not like some of the other ones. These feel even less than personal, completely empty, and even fake.
I see red teddy bears and candy hearts, roses and a couple kissing in the park. This can’t be the extent of what love looks like, but why is this all I have?
She’s finished trimming and I look like a totally different person now. The floor is covered in a ruby mop. It looks like the concrete itself grew a rug while I was sitting there.
When I walk out the door I’m not sure where to go or what to do. There’s nothing more on my required agenda now. I’ve been branded and trimmed and turned loose in a massive building on a planet I know very little about.
“What do I do now?” I ask the purple-maned girl.
“Whatever you want to. My first day I just walked around and asked a lot of questions. And sat in my room. And cried.”
There’s that silence again. I feel terrible being the one that makes her relive sadness. But then, her demeanor changes in an instant.
“But it will be great. You’ll see. You’ll make friends; you’ll get into a routine. If you ever need anyone to talk to, I’m always here.” She smiles.
“What’s your name?”
“Maleah. 4-246-02. But, you don’t have to remember the last part.”
“Thank you, Maleah. It was nice to meet you. I’m going to go… wander.”
Striding out the door, I’m amazed at how quickly I’ve adapted. I’ve only been awake for a couple of hours and in that time I’ve exponentially been able to ascertain what’s happening to me and around me. I guess maybe that isn’t so odd.
When I get to the atrium, I stand there like a lost puppy. There are people swarming all around me, but I don’t see them and they don’t see me. I’m invisible as I stare up at the crystal spire and wish for a moment that it could suck me right up into the clouds—toward the unnatural blue sky I see above me. Do they really expect me to fend for myself now--with incomplete memories and no guidance from anyone?
I grant myself a moment of panic. I have no friends to rely on. I can’t discern fiction from reality. I am helpless. I want to scream again, but I don’t.
The moment of fear passes and I conclude that the only way to ward off anxiety is to keep my brain engaged. I’m committed to finding out the truth so I start by heading to my room.
Where is my room? The packet from the man with the glasses is still in my hands and I open it. Inside is a brightly colored map mixed in with all the other papers.
“Women’s quarters” is listed on one extension of the facility called a “den” and I head there to check out my room and locker. I pass a lot of people who seem as lost as I am. The ones who don’t seem lost seem to be genuinely having a great time. I still don’t completely trust everything around me, but I put that aside long enough to make it to my room.
My key is labeled with my name—6-103-14. As I look at the map I can see that the rooms are labeled the same way. I have to walk up six flights of stairs where I find an unmarked door at the top of the stairwell. I’m out of breath by the time I get there and the exercise makes me cough.
I cough fo
r several minutes—bringing up a pink-tinged phlegm. Lucky for me, there’s a towel dispenser in the stairwell. I cough into it until I can breathe more clearly. My hand finds the knob and I hear the beep from the chip inside my head when I enter the women’s quarters.
Inside is a very long hallway with numbers on each door. Common sense tells me to look for 103. Every twenty doors or so there is a common room or lounge where I see girls hanging out and chatting or popping popcorn in a microwave oven. I don’t even know what I expect or what I’m supposed to say to them.
This scene reminds me of freshman days at college. I felt like the outsider. Where did I go to college? I’m not even surprised when I don’t know.
This corridor seems endless. I find room 103 and walk in. I hear the beep again, and just for fun I walk out and back in a few times. The faithful beep rings in my head each time.
By the looks of it, I’m not the first one to have come in here, because so far all seven of the lower bunks have been claimed with packets lying on each bunk. I pull out the key to my locker and open it. Inside is a toiletries kit with toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, shampoo, razor, conditioner, etc. There are several changes of identical clothes, notepads and pens, and makeup.
I’ve chosen the top bunk closest to the lockers. It’s in a tight corner. Hopefully, it will provide some relaxation to be able to hide away in this place. I’m glad that I won’t have to sleep alone, but part of me wants the comfort of solitude as well. I sit down and decide to look through my packet.
The first page is the volunteer form I signed. It is printed on exquisite linen Camp Global Commerce letterhead. The paper reads:
“I, Genesis, give Camp Global Commerce permission to erase all personal memories from my consciousness.
I consent to all medical procedures and requirement of confidentiality.
I consent to travel, live, and work on the planets Erimos and Pavana for the duration of my life span or until signing a new contract with CGC that negates this form.
I consent to have my memories reset in the event of an emergency or in the interest of the greater whole.
I consent to be tagged with a microchip device.
I agree to abide by all laws and regulations that CGC has or will inform me of and to submit to their leadership without reservation.
By signing this form I am consenting to waive my right to ever travel back to the planet Earth or to demand knowledge of my life previously. —April 10.”
A curvy signature rests on the line under the date.
How will I ever know if that signature is mine?
Chapter 3
*
Dr. Mitchell
Another set of recruits. Another day. I guess I should be grateful. Heaven knows everyone here keeps telling me that. “Just be glad you have a job, Pax…you should be grateful to be alive, Pax.”
Maybe they’re right. Sometimes I feel like a jerk for hating what I do. But then sometimes I hate myself for doing it.
Everyone thinks my job is heroic, but I’m not sure I can agree. I’m not sure about anything so I just put one foot in front of the other and keep going.
Here comes Esther with my coffee. Wonderful coffee—that one constant in my day. If everything else goes wrong, at least I’ve started my day with the same routine. I can always count on coffee. Time to sit down and start on the reports.
“Good morning Esther. How are the recruits today?” I try to be as cheery as possible in the mornings because days rarely get better as the hours pass. Sometimes Esther is fooled by my morning optimism. Not today.
“They look better than you, Doctor Mitchell. That’s for sure. We had some irregularities with three of them. Nothing major with any but one. You should take a look. The rest seem to be functioning normally. Here are their files. They have just been sent to tagging.”
I take the files and coffee, tell Esther “thank you”, and head to my office to start documenting.
While skimming over the files, I type notes in the computer. At last, I come to the three that have been flagged, two yellows and a red.
Something about it seems off right away. 6-103-12, 6-103-13, and 6-103-14 have all been noted as irregular. Numeric succession could mean there is a problem with the calibrator. Esther said the chamber was squeaking yesterday. I thought it just needed a good cleaning, but I should probably file a work order for it just in case.
6-103-12 and 6-103-14 had initial vitals outside parameters. 14 seems to have had trouble with the loyalty question, but they seem to be fine now. I input their data and save the red-flagged file for last. It reads:
6-103-13: Code-Silas
Vitals stable; alert; oriented quickly; irregular response to vision sequence. Answer not found in database.
It might have been helpful to have more of an explanation. I swear, sometimes Esther writes like an android. Nevertheless, I suppose I will have to bring Silas in for an examination.
I hit the intercom button and rub my forehead with a sigh “Esther, will you schedule 6-103-13 for an examination
tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, Doctor Mitchell.”
I already have my plate full because a stomach virus has hit one of the dens and that means I may be busy the rest of the day. And then I’ll go to sleep and do the same thing tomorrow.
Sometimes I miss Earth--the challenges, the beauty, and the clarity I had there. I feel like a different person here.
I was fresh out of med school when I volunteered for this project. I’m sure after eight years anywhere I would expect to change and morph into someone else. Isn’t that what everyone does? They start out excited and end up disillusioned about the universe. They grow and adapt and change.
But some days I feel like I’m actually slipping away. I know there’s no going back, and I know “she’s” gone, but I think longing for it to be the way it was is the only way I feel human.
Chapter 4
*
Genesis
The map is sprawled out on my bed like a giant napping dog. On one side is a legend of the complex I’m living in. It is labeled the “Erimos Core”. It is, not surprisingly, in the shape of a snowflake and is six stories high. What is it with the symbolism?
The epicenter, which is the atrium, is rather small in diameter compared to the main complex. This is where I received my packet earlier today. The spokes of the complex are denoted on the key as “Dens”. Den 1 is designated as a dock, shipping port, and market. Den 2 is labeled Male Quarters. Den 3 is Female quarters. Den 4 is lab, clinic, and security center. Den 5 is noted as Support staff quarters and offices, and Den 6 is Cafeteria, recreation, and militia training.
The other side of the map is a larger view of the entire planet. This lists several substations and quarries for mining. Erimos is rocky and dry with little shade. There are only a few rivers listed. One is close to the complex and labeled Erimos River. Behind this map there is another one that shows an overall view of our sister planet Pavana.
Pavana is covered by water and very green flatlands. There is a complex called Pavana Core with miles of farmland and orchard surrounding it. Their compound structure appears to be identical to ours, but they also have a secondary complex
called “Pavana 2.” I guess some of the people I met in the atrium this morning are already there learning about their new planet now. I wonder what it is like for them. Are they scared? Do they have a million questions? Am I the only one who feels like this is happening way too fast?
Continuing through my packet, I find a brochure with a smiling man on the front wearing a white coat. The title of the brochure is: Your New Home—a guide to living in Erimos.
Why do I feel like this mass-produced pamphlet will only raise more questions in my mind?
The first point in the brochure reads: “Weather and how to dress appropriately: Erimos is a very warm planet. The complex is cooled to seventy-seven degrees at all times, but outside the building you will find that the average temperature is between on
e hundred and one hundred and ten degrees. It is extremely dry. The planet is covered in a reflective white dust--most of which is laced with asprosium. There are very few natural rivers or lakes on the planet although a few do exist. Wildlife is sparse and the terrain is made up of tablelands and scattered brush. Make sure to drink plenty of water when you are outside and wear the provided sunscreen. Erimos is used as a mining planet for Asprosium and diamonds. In addition, we have our own militia. A full service clinic, specter dock, cafeteria, and market can also be found on our planet, for which we have many support staff workers.”
What the heck is asprosium? And a specter dock?
The second point of the brochure says: “Rules and regulations: Ensuring a safe atmosphere. The work cycle lasts from Monday through Saturday from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. If you work outside the complex, you must ride a specter to your mining location. Specters depart from Den 1 on the loading docks and updated schedules can be found throughout the complex at various projector stations. When you are not working you are free to roam about. You may not leave the complex outside of working hours. The chip in your snowflake tag allows you entry into all permissible rooms of Erimos Core. After 5 p.m. there is no re-entry into the complex and you will not be able to exit. This is for your safety.
Your tag also allows you to purchase goods. When it is scanned, ‘credits’ that you have been accruing are deducted from your account. You will automatically accrue credits from working your normal hours or by working overtime when replacing a staff worker if they are sick or on vacation. You may also transfer credits from one person to another. Those of us at CGC have designed our complex to bring you maximum enjoyment during your ‘downtime’. Please take advantage of all that we have to offer.”
Next to this bullet point is a cheesy picture of a woman bowling and smiling as if she’s reached nirvana by knocking down a few pins.