by Jack Alden
I press my thumb to the door’s security pad and wait for it to turn green before going inside. The couch is a comfort against my back, soft and welcoming, and I slump down onto it as if I might never get up again. Maybe I won’t. How am I supposed to go on like this? Day in. Day out. How am I supposed to just keep going, keep living here, as if I don’t have a home, a family, another better, happier me somewhere else? It feels impossible.
I lay on the couch until my stomach starts to grumble, and I realize nearly an entire day has passed since the last time I ate. I refuse to go down to the dining hall. I will not be one of those happy-to-be-here suck-ups. I’m not happy to be here. I’m not happy at all. When I go to the dining hall, it will be because I have to, not because I want to, because I never will.
I roll off the couch and cross to the hulking machine taking up half a wall. Warren had called it a Voice-Activated Virtual Catalog. Great. Another voice-activated hunk of technology. I’m still not over my shower experience, me turning into a shouting idiot just trying to get clean. Hopefully, this experience will be an upgrade from the last.
It looks simple enough. There’s a large screen in the middle of the machine, and just below it is an even larger hollowed-out space topped with a long metal tray. The screen is already lit up. It has been since I arrived earlier this morning, though I’d never stopped to look at it. Displayed on the bright blue screen are the following three words: Categories, Favorites, and Special Requests.
At first, I only stare at the words, unsure if there is a particular one I’m supposed to choose, before deciding to go for it. I press the first word but nothing happens. The screen doesn’t read my touch. Oh hell, here we go again! Why doesn’t anyone tell me how to work anything ahead of time? I’m from the Gutter. It’s safe to assume I know absolutely nothing about technology. I’d never even seen a computer in person before I came here, and now they’re everywhere, even built into the showers. Voice-activated. Right. I remind myself again that I have to actually speak to the machine, so I clear my throat and say, “Categories.”
The woman from the security wand—I’ve decided to call her Wanda because I’m tired of calling her the woman from the wand—repeats the word and the screen changes to a new, larger list of options. There’s a category for everything, from food to entertainment to bed linens and more. I resist the urge to shout them all just to see what each has to offer, and say, “Food and Beverage.”
Wanda repeats the command, and again, the screen changes. Even more categories appear. Okay, it’s getting old now. “I just want to see them all,” I shout, and to my surprise, Wanda responds.
“All options,” she says, and pages upon pages of pictures appear. Images of food items, meal combinations, and beverages decorate the screen. My stomach groans as if overwhelmed, and though I don’t have a clue what most of the options are, they all look fantastic enough. I say the first thing that looks good, some kind of goose stew, and am more than certain I mispronounce the name, then I shout out about five more options before I can contain myself. Wanda repeats them back rapid-fire, and a few moments later, items begin to materialize on the metal tray in the machine’s large slot. I gasp as I watch it all appear. I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to it. I hope I don’t.
I watch the tray fill in with a mountain of food and some kind of drink that bubbles on its own, I realize I’ve ordered way more than I can manage. As I pick up the loaded tray and carry it toward the table by the couch, I think of Beck. His face floods my mind, the way he lit up when he saw the feast my mother saved for him. I wish he could see this now. My only comforting thought is that he will never have to be hungry again. The stipend the president agreed to will mean enough money to have a feast every night. I made sure of it.
After stuffing my face with two huge helpings of stew and wondering what a goose is, I’m on the verge of bursting. I put the tray back in the VAVC and gasp again when the dirty dishes instantly disappear. I definitely don’t think I’ll get used to this.
The fascination continues when I decide to try to check my schedule as Warren advised. On the other side of the room, built into a wall next to the massive windows looking out over the Dome, is a rectangular device. A glass cover hangs over the device, which I raise to reveal an electronic pad much like the one on the door to my quarters. This one is larger and bears a bright green outline of a hand on it. Easy enough. I fit my left hand to the outline. A beep sounds and Wanda’s voice echoes through the room again. “Access Granted.”
A whirring sound follows and a gigantic white screen descends from a well-hidden slot in the ceiling. I try not to gasp yet again but the reaction is instinctual. I can’t help it. The screen flickers to life, and there I am. The same rotating picture of me that had erupted from the security wand when I first arrived now spins on the screen. A grid next to picture lays out the entire month to come. A giant month of nothing but tests it seems. The slots are filled with titles like Medical Assessment, Imaging, and Psychological Assessment. My stomach flips at the thought. I don’t know what any of it might entail, and I try not to imagine. I try not to think about it at all. Many of the slots are empty, and I haven’t got a clue why. Maybe the president is giving me time to adjust, or maybe he’s giving his people time to adjust and rotate me into their days. Maybe he has something planned that isn’t on the schedule at all. I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to know.
The next month, however, is packed. Training sessions of all sorts fill the grid: Endurance; Balance and Body Control; Defensive Tactics; Hand-to-Hand Combat; Gun Control and Targeting; Throwing and Handling; Free Running and Movement. A spark of thrill ignites inside and I try to suffocate it. I’ve always loved training, but this is different. This isn’t the cave. Tempest won’t be there. I refuse to enjoy anything this place has to offer. I’m a prisoner, I remind myself. I’m a prisoner.
The only slots I feel certain of are the ones labeled Meal and Recreation. I’m surprised the last one is on the schedule at all. I hadn’t expected the president to offer up any kind of special free time. What am I supposed to do with it anyway? I don’t have friends here. I don’t have family. I don’t have anything or anyone. Am I supposed to spend an entire day sitting alone in my room, ordering random options from the VAVC? Sleeping? Trying out all the different soaps in the shower? I don’t know what I’ll do, but whatever it is, I’m already dreading it. The more time I have to myself, the worse it will be. At least, when I’m training, I’ll have something to focus on. When I’m alone, all I can think about is home.
The last thing I notice on the screen is another revolving picture. It’s smaller and tucked into the bottom right of the grid. I recognize the face instantly, and under the solemn features reads the title: Lieutenant Calixa Warren. Calixa. So that’s what the C stands for.
I don’t know how to turn off the projector so I just let it stay as is and head for my room. Maybe it will retract itself after some amount of time. It’s morning still, but I’m exhausted. All I really want is to drown this day in sleep, but as soon as I fall into bed, my mind lights up. Thoughts of my family seep in and stay, my last moments with Tempest, the haunt in Beck’s eyes when the Sanctioning Squad escorted me out of the house, the tremble in Mom’s voice when she confessed what she’d done. I don’t want to face any of it, but I don’t have a choice. I roll over and bury my face in my pillow, fighting off the ache.
I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep at all.
***
When the next morning comes, the banging on my door returns. I’m groggy and my head is pounding. When I open the door, I’m half-convinced I’ve been trapped in a time loop somehow and yesterday is just repeating itself. Warren is standing in the hallway like a living statue in her pristine uniform, beret, and solemn expression. She nods once upon seeing me.
“Good morning,” she says, and I arch a brow. She frowns. Conversation clearly isn’t her thing. I can tell she’s uncomfortable. Her voice falters the slightest bit. “
I’m here to escort you to medical.”
I groan and lean my head against the door. “Didn’t we do this yesterday?”
Warren blinks as if perplexed by the question. “Yes,” she says. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You are scheduled for a medical assessment at 0800.”
The longest, deepest sigh of my life crawls across my lips like the last breath of a dying beast. “Two hours of sleep feels the same as none.”
“I…imagine it wouldn’t provide much relief, no,” Warren says.
I frown and stare at her. “Why are you like this?” The words jump free before I can stop them, and Warren’s lips part. She seems to want to say something but then closes her mouth. I don’t wait for her to try again. Instead, I turn around and head back inside my quarters. “Come on then,” I say. “You can wait inside while I get dressed.”
Watching Lieutenant Warren attempt to look anything other than awkward is almost entertaining enough to wake me up. Almost. She sits on the edge of the sofa, stiff as a rod with her hands palming her knees, and stares straight ahead. I watch her for a few moments before heading into my bedroom to change into fresh clothes.
She doesn’t seem to notice when I return. “You can relax, you know,” I tell her, and she turns toward me. “If I, of all people, can relax here, then you definitely can.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am.”
“You look like you’re afraid the floor is going to open up and swallow you.”
“That is highly unlikely.”
“Exactly,” I tell her and tilt my head toward the door.
“Ready?” she asks, standing from the sofa.
“As I’ll ever be, Calixa.”
She stills in place but quickly recovers. “I see you accessed your schedule.”
“Yeah, thanks for your help with that,” I say. “Not.”
A genuine smile touches her lips. I’m shocked. “I thought you would enjoy tinkering with the technology,” she says. “As you mentioned yesterday, there is little in the Valley Sector.”
“The Gutter.” I can’t help correcting her. “And there isn’t really any technology there at all, not outside security and the Administrator’s house.”
“What is the Gutter?”
“That’s what we call the Valley Sector,” I tell her. “You didn’t know that?”
“I’ve heard the expression,” she admits, “but why would you call your home that?”
I’m honestly surprised by the question. It’s as if she knows nothing about the “Valley Sector” at all. It makes me uneasy, and I can’t help wondering what the other sectors know of us or of each other. What information is being fed around the Dome and the wealthy sectors? Do they think we’re living in comfort, just not as much comfort as them?
“Well,” I say, unsure of how exactly to proceed, “I guess because it’s the place where all the trash washes up and rots away.” A pang of guilt knots in my stomach. That’s my family, my friends. No one should ever refer to them, us, as trash, but I know so many people do. I, of all people, though, shouldn’t. “At least, that’s how some people see us. We’re the forgotten sector, I guess. The one no one thinks or cares about.”
Warren frowns and avoids my eyes. I expected that reaction.
“We’re poor,” I tell her. “Everyone there. All of us. And I don’t mean ‘of limited means’ either. I mean seriously poor. People starve. They freeze to death. They die from infection because we don’t have access to medical care.” I shake my head. “And no one helps us. No one ever comes. The president just lets us rot.”
Instantly, Warren stiffens. She glances around the room, tense, but then as if remembering something, she relaxes again. That’s when I realize she was looking for cameras, and thankfully, my living quarters don’t have any. At least, that’s what she told me, and it seems that’s what she believes, and if her reaction is anything to go by, she must not be wearing a mic anymore either. If so, it’s a good thing. I’d spoken against the president. That’s treason. The realization hits me hard. Oh. She was scared. For just a moment, Lieutenant Warren was scared, whether for me or for herself, I’m not sure.
I watch her throat bob with a swallow but she doesn’t look away from me. She looks me dead in the eyes when she says, “That’s terrible, Dagger.”
It’s the first time she has used my name, my name, and it feels…I don’t know. It’s not friendly. The moment, the subject matter, doesn’t lend well to anything friendly, but it’s something. It’s a shift in the air or between us or both. I shake my head. “No, it’s criminal.”
In the privacy of my room, she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t reprimand me. She doesn’t stay silent. She holds steady and says, “It is.”
It shocks me to the point of taking my breath away. I’d expected all the president’s army, especially those in close command to him, to adore him. I’d expected them to be unconditional in their loyalty. I’d expected them to be absolute, but Calixa Warren, it seems, might be so much more than that. She might even be an ally, and for the first time since I arrived, I don’t feel so alone.
6
Warren takes me to a different section of the medical wing this time, and I’m immediately carted off by a man in a white coat. I try to pay attention to my surroundings but there’s too much to take in. Machines, tubes, solutions, doctors—all things and people I know nothing about, using terminology I don’t understand. It’s intimidating, and I try not to let how much it’s affecting me show, but all it takes is a single scan of my heart rate to give me away. It’s racing.
A woman with solid white eyes tells me to take a deep breath and relax. I want to tell her that that’s kind of hard to do when strangers are zipping around me, pulling at my clothes and sticking things on my skin, but I figure it’s probably a bad idea to talk back to the lady with the needle in her hand. So, I choke it down and take a deep breath. It doesn’t help. I briefly consider asking her where her pupils escaped to, but I figure that’s probably also a bad idea. Maybe a worse one.
Besides, it’s likely just a genetic modification. I remember reading about them a few years ago when they got popular in the wealthy sectors. People were volunteering, even paying, to have their genes altered to produce strange, exotic effects. It didn’t always go as planned, if I recall. A boy in my class, Lyle Madden, was obsessed with the idea of having a tail, not that he could have ever afforded the procedure.
The woman with the white eyes sticks the needle in my arm and draws so many vials of blood that I’m scared I’m not going to have enough left to keep me alive. She smacks on a colorful bandage afterward, makes me drink an entire cup of orange juice, then sends me off to another room.
This one is cozier, a little less clinical. A new man in a white coat drops into a seat across from the rolling chair I’ve occupied most of the morning. He has a bushy gray mustache and wrinkles around his eyes, but his voice is young and clear. “Hello, Prudence.”
“Dagger.” It’s automatic. His brows raise.
“Your middle name,” he says. “Is that your preferred name?”
I nod.
“Very well,” he says. “I’m Dr. Quorn. I’ll be in charge of your psychological assessments throughout the coming weeks. How are you feeling today?”
“Dizzy,” I tell him, “and a little freaked out.”
“That’s natural,” he says. “This many medical tests in a single day can be overwhelming, especially for someone of your background.”
“My background?”
“Yes,” he says. “Your limited exposure to technology and healthcare.”
My face heats up. I grit my teeth.
“That angers you.” He looks me over, and I narrow my eyes but don’t say anything. I know better. The president’s warning pops in my ears. Monitor your attitude.
Dr. Quorn smiles, and the wrinkles on his face multiply. “If you don’t want to answer, that’s fine.” He jots down a note on a p
ad of paper in his lap. “Now, I’m going to ask you a series of standard questions, and I’d like you to answer as quickly and as simply as possible.”
I nod.
“What is your name?”
I frown. I wasn’t expecting that. “You just said it.”
“Please answer the question, Dagger.”
I resist rolling my eyes. “Prudence Dagger Leary.”
He nods. “How old are you?”
“Se—No, Eighteen years old now.”
“Mhm,” he says. “What is your birthday?”
“October 27, 2223.”
“And where were you born?”
“The Gutter.” I bite my tongue. “I mean, the North Side Valley Sector.”
“What is your mother’s name?”
“Grace.”
“Her full name, please.”
“Grace Analeigh Leary.”
“Maiden name?”
“Odair.”
“Thank you,” he says, “and your father’s name?”
“Caiman Osiris Leary.”
“And now, can you name your living siblings, please?”
“Their full names?”
“First names will do.”
“Okay,” I say. “Tempest and Beckham.”
“And the name of your deceased sibling?”
I have to take a breath on that one. That word—deceased. I hate it. “Juden,” I say, looking at my hands in my lap. My knuckles are nearly white. I hadn’t realized how hard I was squeezing my fingers into fists.
“Excellent,” he says. “Now, as simply as possible, please describe your earliest memory.”