by T. S. Welti
We did this.
Our professors told us it was the darklings who destroyed the city with their violence and unconquerable urges. They took too much and gave too little. They reproduced too much. They killed too many, yet not enough because there were too many of them clogging the subways and apartment buildings, until the subways were destroyed and apartment buildings abandoned in the war. They used each other, cheated each other, discarded each other. They destroyed each other.
Our professors had it wrong. We destroyed them. Darklings were extinct not because of a grand evolutionary shift brought on by civil war and technology. Darklings were extinct because we wiped them out. We purified them. And the purification wasn’t complete.
The streets of Manhattan were bustling by year 2147 standards. During our four-mile trek to the darkroom on Fifth, we encountered nearly a hundred citizens outside on this warm August day. I wondered how many of them were out for the same purpose as I was: to seek a private darkroom. Most New Yorkers were content to utilize the darkrooms built inside the apartment buildings in which they lived.
The darkroom on Fifth was built inside an old restaurant. Where steaming pizzas were once served, a delicacy I had only seen in ancient pictures of New York, now recycled plastic cups were filled with alien-like goo and served as dinner. The former dining area had been rebuilt to accommodate four darkrooms and a lavatory, accessible by a long corridor that ended in a brick-faced wall. The dispenser jutted out of the wall, right outside the lavatory door where the stench of toilets that hadn’t been properly scrubbed in years oozed from the walls.
Darla held the clear plastic cup under the dispenser, caked with mildew and limescale. She held her finger over the flashing blue sensor and out plopped her ration. She guzzled it down quickly and tossed the cup into the recycling bin under the dispenser.
“That wasn’t so bad,” she proclaimed.
“Right,” I muttered, as I clasped my thin tunic over my nose. “Let’s get out of here before the smell devours us.”
“Aren’t you going to drink your ration?”
The stench was making my eyes water. “I’m not drinking anything from that tap. I’ll drink mine at home.” Another lie.
The walk around the corner to the abandoned apartment building on Broadway brought with it a strange sense I was being watched. The feeling dug its claws into me as I glimpsed an angel with his helmeted head pointed in our direction. The glass face of his bubbled mask reflected the waning sunlight. I looked away quickly, afraid he might have some special x-ray software inside his helmet that allowed him to see inside my empty belly.
I glanced up and the video screen on One Times Square displayed a picture of a young man and woman standing side by side in front of a tiny black coffin, like the ones they used for children. The headline over the image read: Hereditary Intelligence benefits everyone. Report illicit breeding immediately. The image changed, now depicting an entrance to the abandoned subway system with a red exclamation point superimposed on the image. This image didn’t need a headline. The message was clear. Do not enter the old subway or you’ll be sorry.
I pondered the words hereditary intelligence for a moment as we approached the apartment building and came to a sick realization. What if the job of the Hereditary Intelligence Commission wasn’t to select partners as a means of preserving health and intellect, but rather to ensure a steadily declining intellect?
The screen changed again and a twenty-foot tall image of Executive Minister Jane Locke splashed across the screen. Her brown and gray hair was pulled into a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck and fell to the middle of her back, the mandated length. Her broad smiling face tilted up toward the upper-right corner of the screen. I’d seen this image a million times on video screens and posters across the city. My mother lovingly referred to Jane Locke as “the face of Felicity”. Examining that face now, I had never noticed Locke’s thin lips, hooked nose, and lumpy cheeks. It looked as if the Hereditary Intelligence Commission had bumbled the DNA for her facial features.
Why couldn’t I stop this onslaught of negative thoughts?
As we entered the lobby of the apartment building on Broadway, I found myself both grateful for and disturbed by Darla’s silence. She had nothing to say about those images on the screen and I found this frustrating. But my annoyance with Darla was quickly forgotten when I noticed someone leaning against the wall outside the darkroom: Mr. Half-smile.
6
The shadows of his spiky black hair clawed the wall behind him. His blue coveralls were unnaturally spotless, not a speck of dust or a hint of a wrinkle. His half-smile was gone as Darla approached the scanner, but he never looked at her. Even as she held her wrist inside the scanner and her sec-band flashed green, his gaze never left my face.
The steel door slid open and she glanced over her shoulder at me. “See you in an hour,” she said, as she disappeared inside the darkroom.
The door slid shut behind her and I tried to ignore Mr. Half-smile as I approached the scanner.
“Don’t do that,” he said, as he grabbed my forearm.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, yanking my arm out of his strangely clean hand.
He appeared to be stifling a laugh, but he quickly composed himself. “They’re watching you. They know everything.”
I didn’t have to ask whom he was talking about. I lifted my arm toward the scanner and again he clutched my arm to stop me. He quickly pulled me by the arm around the corner into a dimly lit corridor out of the view of the camera.
“They know,” he whispered more forcefully.
“They know what?”
“Vomiting the rations, your grandmother’s secret, the cherry soda, everything.”
“The cherry soda?”
Of everything he said, it was this detail of my life inside Darklandia that stuck out like the spikes of his hair. The Department of Felicity knew what I did inside Darklandia.
“No, it’s not what you think,” he continued.
He passed me a note with the words South Pool, 8 p.m. scrawled in crisp handwriting. I stuffed the piece of paper into the front pocket of my tunic. “Isn’t this location a bit risky? And I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Aaron,” he replied quickly. “That location is ideal because of the lack of cameras and exactly because it’s risky. They won’t expect it. That gives us the advantage.”
“You talk about this like it’s a game.”
“It is a game… to them.”
This was the guy who saved me from being marked, possibly from being raptured, offering to lead me further into the vast darkness, further from the comfort of yesterday. According to him, that comfort was an illusion.
“Okay, Aaron,” I said. “But only if you tell me your real name?”
He paused before he answered. “Your father called me Nyx, but you can call me Aaron.”
Darla exited the darkroom and scanned her sec-band. “What are you doing out here? Was I in there longer than an hour?”
I kept my expression impassive as I wondered if she was murdering anyone inside Darklandia today—maybe me. “No. I was just thinking about some stuff,” I replied. “I’m coming back to serve my hour later, around seven. Want to come with me?”
Darla began fidgeting with her lifesaver again. “That’s awfully close to curfew. Why don’t you just serve it now?”
“I don’t want to make you wait.”
“You’re acting strange.”
I thought of all our Felicity school classes, the only education we received from age three to seven, where the Code of Felicity was first hammered into us. The Code of Felicity spoke often about the power of intention. Why? Why did you say that? Why did you do that? Why did you think that? If the answer to the question was not clearly “Felicity” then it should not be said, done, or thought.
I wanted Darla to know the real “why”, but for the first time in our fourteen-year friendship I didn’t know if I could trust her. I didn’t even k
now what it meant to trust someone. Part of me wanted to tell her I would come alone, part of me wanted to tell her the truth about Nyx, or Aaron, but an even greater part of me wanted to forget him, serve my hour, drink my ration, and go to bed as I was instructed.
I grabbed Darla’s arm and pulled her into an alley between two buildings once used as television studios. “Darla, I’m going to tell you something terrible, but I need you to promise you won’t tell anyone—at least not until tomorrow.”
“Something terrible?” she repeated my words with a slight gasp.
I never used filter words. Negative words were filtered out of our vocabulary. They were not forbidden, but they triggered episodes in some people and we were taught to only use them when no other word would suffice. Language filters were taught in Felicity school and they were ingrained in me by the age of six. In this instance, the word “terrible” wasn’t necessary, but my language filters didn’t seem to be working.
I glanced at the camera affixed to the corner of the building. It pointed into the alley so I leaned forward to whisper in Darla’s ear. “I’m not drinking my ration today and I’m not serving my hour. I’m meeting someone who knows what happened to my father and I want you to come with me.”
Darla’s smile twitched. “Now I know you’re joking. You shouldn’t joke like that, Sera.”
“It’s not a joke,” I said more forcefully, as the whir of the camera chafed my nerves. Now, I had to say something for the angels in the sky. “Let’s go. I have to check in with my mother before I go back to serve my hour.”
My mind was splitting into two separate identities like my old tunics when Mother unraveled the seams to repurpose the front panel into washrags and the back panel into a quilt. Two pieces of the same cloth, each with a very different purpose.
Darla did not question me the rest of the walk to the apartment. She also didn’t protest when I suggested she come inside and say hello to my mother. I wanted my mother to know I was with Darla today and I wanted her to see me leave with Darla.
Darla and I entered the apartment and were immediately greeted by the sound of my mother’s grunts as she scrubbed something in the lavatory. The clotheslines lashed the living space into segments. Damp dingy clothing hung about the room, dripped onto the sofa and carpet, drowning the apartment in a sour, earthy musk. I wanted to take a shower since this might be my last chance to shower for weeks, but I needed to get out of this apartment.
“Mother,” I called out as I approached the lavatory being careful not to slip in the glistening puddles that dotted the kitchen floor. “Mother, Darla and I are going to serve our hour. We’ll be back before curfew. Did you need help with anything before we leave?”
My mother turned her head away from the tub where folds of linen swam like mermaid ghosts in a foamy gray ocean. “How did your evaluation go?” she asked.
I couldn’t tell if she was surprised or pleased to see me, or maybe she was disappointed. “It went well, except the health specialist made a mistake and they had to cut the evaluation short.”
“A mistake?”
Stupid malfunctioning language filter.
“I mean, the specialist left without informing anyone of his whereabouts.”
“Oh,” my mother replied, as she went back to swirling the linens around the grimy bathtub that never seemed to get clean no matter how much bleach my mother poured into the cracked, moldy grout. “Be back before curfew to drink your nightly ration.”
“Of course,” I said. “Are you certain you don’t need any help with the wash?”
She shook her head without looking up. “I’ll set a few damp rags on the counter for you to wash up when you get home. They’ve already turned the water off.”
I could tell by the dirt on my mother’s elbows and knees that she hadn’t had the chance to shower today, either. My throat swelled as I thought of the injustice of it; the rationing of water and nutrients, the living in constant filth and close quarters, the lack of control over any of it.
By the time Darla and I reached the courtyard in front of the Department of Felicity I had composed myself again. The warmth of the August sunshine radiated from the concrete even as the sun tucked itself away behind the silhouette of the Statue of Liberty. The dim solar-powered street lamps cast a murky yellow glow across the courtyard and the hollow fountains. Only three people other than the angels could be seen lurking about. One of those three was engaged in a lively conversation with one of the angels. The tips of his spiky hair smoldered under the glow of the street lamps, like a crowned halo.
“That’s him,” I said to Darla, throwing a quick nod toward Aaron as we stood motionless near the corner of the South Pool.
“I want to go home,” she whispered.
“Go ahead. I won’t be upset,” I replied. “But please don’t tell anyone anything until tomorrow.”
She stared at me for a moment and I had an awful sinking feeling that this was the last time I would see Darla. I wanted to hug her and tell her everything would be all right, the way my grandmother hugged me during the change, but I saw no sign of distress in Darla’s face. No sign that she was afraid this would be our last moment spent together as best friends, as allies.
“Good evening, ladies,” Aaron said, and I fell backward against the fence surrounding the empty fountain.
“You startled me,” I said, righting myself next to Darla, forming a united front even if she didn’t seem to want any part of this frontier.
“I apologize,” Aaron replied, glancing at me before he addressed Darla. “Nice to meet you. I’m Aaron.” He turned back to me. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend.”
“We’re inseparable,” I replied.
“No, Sera, I really think I should leave,” Darla said, glancing back and forth between Aaron and the nearest angel. “I need to help my mother with the mending. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”
I nodded for fear that if I spoke my voice would sound as strangled and painful as my thoughts.
She walked away without glancing back. When she was at the corner of Liberty and Greenwich Aaron finally spoke up.
“Why are you here?” he asked, and I immediately thought of today’s evaluation. The woman asked, “Do you know why you’re here?” Her question implied I was brought there against my will. Aaron’s question implied the opposite.
“I’m here because I want to know what happened to my father.”
“That’s all?”
My eyes scanned the courtyard to see if there were any angel helmets pointed in our direction. “I want to know what happened to New York. I want to know why I feel this way, why I can’t stop feeling like something is wrong.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer. “The drought changed everything,” he began, pausing to let me take in these words. “For centuries, water was needed for humanity’s favorite distraction from reality: alcohol. In 2037, to conserve water, the American government outlawed the production and consumption of alcoholic beverages. That’s when everything exploded.”
“Alcohol? What is that?”
“It’s something people used to drink. Some people drank too much of it, but the point is it was made mostly of water. The drought made it impossible to continue production of alcohol, which is why it was prohibited.”
“Did it taste like water? Did it have nutrients? Why did people like it so much?”
He appeared slightly exasperated by my many questions. “It relaxes you. It makes you feel happy.”
“So it is like rations?”
“Sort of, but not really. May I continue?”
“Of course. Sorry.”
I didn’t realize we were walking until we were near the opposite corner of the South Pool, approaching a Guardian Angel.
“The crime rate shot through the stratosphere,” Aaron continued. “People who normally spent their nights at home with a few drinks suddenly had nothing to do. Nothing to fill the empty hours. Nothing to kill the pain of
living with hardly any water or hope.
“Then, in 2039, a wealthy entrepreneur by the name of Peter Frost saw the potential in the hostility caused by the prohibition. He built a virtual amusement park where people could go to escape reality. Darklandia was a world where people could punch their boss in the nose, cheat on their wives, rob banks, and even murder people. The dirtier the deeds, the more points you scored and the more levels you conquered. The more levels you conquered, the longer you got to stay inside the pod. People traveled from all over the world to visit Darklandia. It was the new Disneyland, without water.”
He was speaking so many filter words I didn’t want to hear: wives, murder, dirty. But I thought I was beginning to understand.
“Are you saying the end of human suffering began with an amusement park?”
“I’m saying the end of human suffering is a myth.”
“But everyone’s happy.”
“You think that just because a person doesn’t question the way the system works that means they agree with it? And if they do agree that must mean they’re happy? Are you happy?”
I suddenly had a vision of bleak little orchestras playing inside the minds of people all over New York City, all over Atraxia. Sad operas with no soprano to sing the stories behind the haunting melodies. Human beings locked in a state of complacency through the use of nutritional rations.
“What does this have to do with Darklandia? Darklandia helped everyone. It’s the rations that turned everyone into zombies. And what does this have to do with me? Yes, I made a mistake, but I can still fix it. If I drink my rations and serve my hours, eventually they’ll forget what I did. Won’t they?”
“Sera, they watched your father for over a year. I’m not saying they’re coming for you tomorrow or next week, but one of these days your sec-band is going to flash red and you’re not going to have someone to bail you out a second time because there won’t be a second evaluation.”
“I don’t understand why everyone is so afraid of being purified. If they cut out a piece of my brain to turn me into a zombie, I won’t care because I’ll be a zombie. If they rapture me, I won’t care because I won’t exist anymore.”