by H. A. Swain
I lower my shirt. “But there has to be an explanation. Don’t you want to know why?”
“I know why,” he says.
“You do?” I lean closer, ready to be wowed by the answer. “Tell me.”
“Because we’re human.”
“Oh that,” I say, unimpressed. I pick up the funny little machine on the table. It’s boxy with slats on the top and some kind of scanner thingy on the bottom but no screen anywhere. “What’s this?”
Basil grabs it from me and puts it on his lap out of sight. “Just a thing.”
I pull a book closer. “Where did you get all these?” I flip the heavy glossy pages. Not only are there pictures of food, most of which I’ve never seen before, but also instructions for how to make everything. “Half cup minced onion,” I read. “One clove garlic. One green pepper.” I laugh. “Sounds like a magic potion.”
Basil reaches over and slams the book closed.
“Hey,” I say. “I was looking at that.”
He stacks all the books together and pushes them away from me. “Listen,” he says, nervously. “You should probably get out of here. Won’t someone be wondering where you are?” He points to my back. “They might come looking for you.”
I touch the patch through my clothes. “It doesn’t have a locator,” I tell him. “And I told my Gizmo to go to sleep. I hate people knowing where I am all the time. It’s an affront to my personal liberty.”
He barks an unexpected laugh.
“You think that’s funny?” I ask.
“Well, yeah,” he says. “You just took One World’s legal justification for everything they get away with and turned it against them.”
“‘Corporations are people, too!’” I quote OW’s favorite defense. “Most people don’t get that.” I smile shyly, wondering if he might secretly be a Dynasaur.
“Most people are stupid,” he says.
We grin at each other, but I have to look away and pull a book from the pile to stop myself from reaching out to touch him, which is what I suddenly feel like doing. It makes me nervous.
“Is this what you do when your body makes that noise?” I open the pages and stare at the pictures. “You look at these? Does that make it stop?”
Basil ducks his head and averts his eyes, but then he looks up at me through the soft curls across his forehead. “Sometimes it makes it worse.”
“Then why…”
“How long has it been happening to you?” he asks.
“A few weeks. Maybe more.” Then it’s my turn to be embarrassed. “It’s getting worse,” I nearly whisper.
“It’s been happening to me for longer than that,” he says.
“Maybe you need your Synthamil formula recalibrated.…”
He stares at me for a moment then shakes his head and says, “Recalibrated?” as if incredulous.
“Yeah, they can tweak your personal formula to optimize—”
“Believe me,” he says, turning away. “I’ve seen what they do to the others like us, and it’s not about calibrating optimal formulas. First you’ll bounce around from specialist to specialist who’ll claim they each have the answer, but nothing works. They’ll say it’s all in your mind. They lock you up. Drug you. Make you think you’re crazy. But we’re not crazy.” He stares at me defensively. “Being hungry is the most natural thing in the world.”
I flinch at the word hungry, my mother’s least favorite in the English language.
“But sometimes…” Basil trails off with almost a wild look in his eye. “Sometimes, it’s so bad that I have to do something. I just can’t help it.” Sheepishly, he pulls the little machine out and opens one of the books, which is different than all the others. This one has pictures of food, but underneath each photo an old-fashioned QR code has been pasted to the page. Delicately he turns the pages until he comes to a two-dimensional photograph of a tall round thing. It looks almost like a fancy white hat decorated with pink and purple flowers and curlicues.
“This is a cake,” he says. “People used to eat it to celebrate their birthdays.” He runs the machine over the QR code. The device whirs and clicks, then slowly a subtle scent floats out from the slats on top. I have to sniff several times to catch it. First it’s sweet. High in my head, almost like the smell of hologram flowers that are programmed too strong. But there’s something else in the smell. Something deeper, heavier. I don’t have any words for it, but it makes my mouth go moist.
“This is incredible!” I say and grab the book from him. “What else do you have in here?” I flip the pages until I come to a plump brown bird-shaped thing. “Is this a roasted chicken?” He nods, and I hold out my hand for the machine, but Basil won’t give it to me. “Come on,” I plead. “Please.”
He relents and hands it over. I do what he did, slowly scanning the QR code, then I close my eyes and wait while the smell is released. “Oh my god,” I moan. “It’s sort of salty, like the Simu-Sea at One World, Vacation World,” I say. “And smoky, maybe? Like it’s been over a fire.” I pull in a deep breath. “And there’s citrus and HoloGrass. And something else.” I sniff again, uncertain. “I don’t know how to say it, but it makes me think of my grandma’s hug. Like the smell of her warm neck when I’m sad.”
I open my eyes and see Basil watching me with a broad smile, which changes his face entirely. Instead of a heavy furrowed brow and brooding eyes under those dark curls, his eyes are wide and sparkling, and his smile flashes. A new feeling ripples deep in my stomach. Like going over a hill too fast in my Smaurto. I squirm a little.
“Want to smell something even better?” he asks, and I nod eagerly as he flips the pages. “This is called a chocolate brownie.” He passes the scanner over the code under a photo of a flattish brown rectangle.
I close my eyes and inhale. “Oh my god,” I say and move my face closer to the machine.
“I know,” he says.
I get even closer, pulling in the amazing smell, trying to find a way to describe what’s happening in my nose, my mouth, the pit of my stomach, but I have no words. No way to categorize it except to say that I want more. It starts to fade, and I shoot forward, wanting every last remnant of the scent. I lean closer and closer until Basil and I bump heads. We both fall back, rubbing our foreheads and laughing nervously. He reaches out and touches my scalp.
“You okay?”
His touch makes all the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, biting my lip. “I’m okay. You?”
He takes his hand away and his fingers seem to tremble. “I’m fine.”
“That was incredible,” I say. “What was it called again?”
“A brownie. It was made with chocolate.”
“My grandmother told me about chocolate!” I say excitedly. “She said it was like nothing else.”
“Everything I’ve ever smelled with chocolate in it has been mind-blowing.”
I turn the little machine over to study how it might work. “Where did you get this thing?”
“I made it,” he says.
My mouth drops open. “You made it?” He nods. “How?”
“You really want to know?”
I nod eagerly.
Basil gets up and opens the door to one of the stainless steel cabinets mounted to the wall. Inside are hundreds of small upside-down brown bottles, stacked ten high and held in place by metal clamps. Tubes run from each bottle to a series of larger hoses, which all connect to the coil snaking out the bottom of the cabinet to the device on the table. “I think this was a food lab,” he tells me. “All of these bottles contain aroma compounds and flavorants that they used to create different smells and tastes.”
I stand beside him to get a better look at the labels on each bottle: diacetyl, benzaldehyde, limonene, ethylvanillin, ethyl maltol. “But how do you know which ones smell like what?”
“I found something called the SuperScent database at the Relics, which tells me exactly how much of each compound to use
to create a specific scent, like chocolate. Then I collected all these old cook books with recipes and pictures of food, and I built this scanner and…”
“Oh I get it!” I say, holding the scanner in my palm. “You made a QR code for each picture, which tells the machine how much of each compound to release into the tube.…”
“Exactly!” he says. “So I just run the scanner over the code, and the machine mixes up the smell.”
“This is amazing!”
“Not really. Most of the smells probably aren’t right. I have to guess a lot.”
“Basil. I’m serious. This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. People would flock to this. It’s better than anything you can do at an EntertainArena or PlugIn! People could come here and put together an entire menu!”
“No,” he says and shuts the cabinet door. “This is not for the general public.” He unplugs the device and starts stacking up the books on the table.
“But why?” I grab the rest of the books and follow him through a door on the other side of the lab.
Basil ignores my question as he fiddles with a small key to unlock a cupboard. One by one, he slides the books carefully onto the shelf. I hand him my books, too. Then he takes the machine out of his pocket and locks it in a drawer. When everything is put away, he leans against the counter, crosses his arms, and stares at me with that dark, brooding look from earlier.
“Did you really just stumble in here?”
“Of course. How else would I have gotten here? It’s not like it’s on a map.”
He studies me for a moment, shaking his head. “I might be an idiot, but I think I believe you.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m not lying. Who do you think I am, anyway?”
He bites the side of his thumb. “I don’t know, but I don’t think you’re an Analog, are you?”
“A what-a-log? Is that anything like a Dynasaur?”
“What’s a Dynasaur?”
“Never mind,” I say, disappointed.
“Listen, there’s a group of us.…” He turns and opens another drawer then takes out what looks like an actual sheet of paper and an old wooden graphite pencil. “If you want to learn more about what we do…”
Excitement tingles over my skin at the thought of meeting more people like us.
He writes something down with his hand and gives it to me.
“Is this real?” I caress the smooth surface between my thumb and fingers. He nods. “What I am supposed to do with it?”
“Read it.”
I stare at the words printed on the page.
Analogs
Friday
6:00 p.m.
1601 South Halsted
“What’s it mean?” I ask.
“Information about a meeting.”
“But where?”
“The address is there.”
“I don’t know where that is,” I tell him. “Which Loop is it in?”
“You’ll have to head west.”
“Can’t we just link Gizmos?” I reach for mine.
“I don’t have one.”
I almost drop the paper. “What do you mean? How’s that possible? Everyone has a Gizmo.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Not everyone.”
As if in protest, my Gizmo pings and we both jump. “Sorry, probably my friend.” I fumble with the knit holder at my hip, cursing Yaz for interrupting me, but when I pull out my Gizmo, I see that my mom has sent me a text.
Where are you? Can’t reach you by vid and your vitals are all over the place. Locate now!
“Crap!” I say as I text back, Taking a walk. “I have to go,” I tell him and blush at the disappointment in my voice.
“Hey wait,” Basil says. He grabs the paper. “You can’t take that with you.”
“Why not?” I tug on it. “You gave it to me.”
He pulls harder. “Who are you really? And who’s pinging you?”
I yank the paper and we both stumble backward, half a sheet in each of our hands. “Oh no!” I look down at the torn paper and feel like I might cry. “We broke it!”
He sees how upset I am and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, don’t worry.” Another one of those funny ripples goes through my body. “But I have to take this back.”
“Then why did you give it to me?” I ask, still clutching my half.
He thinks about this for a moment. “Because I wanted to, er, uh,… I thought maybe you might…” he stops, and I can see a red flush crawling up his neck. He shoves the other half of the paper at me. “You have to read it silently and commit the info to memory, then destroy it.”
I laugh. “Are you joking?”
He shakes his head, and I realize that he’s very serious.
“Okay,” I tell him. I smooth the halves on the countertop and fit them back together so I can read the words again. Then I pull out my Gizmo to give Astrid the info, but Basil reaches out and lays his hand on mine.
“No,” he says. “Don’t. You have to remember. It’s the only way.”
“Nobody can remember that much info.”
“People used to memorize entire books, whole maps, important dates, phone numbers for all their friends and family, all kinds of stuff,” he insists.
“When?”
“When they had to.”
I stare at the paper, rereading the lines over and over, trying to get them to stick inside my brain.
“You got it?”
“I think so.”
“If it’s important, you’ll remember,” he tells me.
I read it one more time. “Okay,” I tell him uncertainly.
He picks up both pieces of paper and rips them into pieces.
“Hey!” I yell.
“It’s the only way.” He tears and tears until only tiny shreds are left, then he opens the lid on a bucket of murky water and drops the pieces in. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll make a new piece later out of this.”
“You can do that?” I ask astonished.
“That was the original recycling.” He leads me out of the room, turning off the light as we go.
When we get into the first room, my Gizmo pings with another message from my mom demanding to know where I am. “Sorry,” I say. “I better go or my mother will have my Smaurto looking for me.” I head for the door, but then I turn around and look at Basil. “You’ll be there, right? At the meeting?”
He nods. “See you there?”
My cheeks grow warm and I have to take a deep breath. “Yes, see you there!” Then I turn and run outside into the night air.
* * *
I run blindly for a minute or two, turning corners and zipping up empty streets. I have no idea why I’m running. It’s not like I’m in danger or in a hurry. But meeting Basil and learning about other people like me makes me feel so good I have to move. It’s as if every muscle in my body is elated and about to explode, shooting me up into the air until I’m flying over the entire city, looking down at everyone far below me. Hello! Hello! I would call. Look at meeeeee! while I do loop-de-loops in the sky. My feet pound against the pavement as my heart pounds in my chest. The giddy, throbbing excitement propels me forward until I’m out of breath and panting while leaning against the side of an old building. I catch my breath and look for something familiar, but I’m lost and even that feels good because no matter how turned around I get out here, I know that I’m not alone.
I imagine wandering around this maze of streets until I bump into Basil again. His face floats up in my mind and my heart revs. I laugh out loud, sending my voice bouncing around the walls. Will Basil hear? Will he know it’s me? Thinking all these crazy thoughts makes my face grow hot, so I press my cheek against the cool metal wall behind me.
My Gizmo pings and I jump. Just another message from my mom demanding that I come right home because she can see that my heart rate has skyrocketed and I’m using too much CO2. I breathe deeply, trying to calm down. There’s no way I’m calling her. The last thing I want to
deal with are her questions. I turn on my locator, reconnect Astrid to my car, then send a quick text telling my mom that I’m heading home soon.
I feel like a different person retracing my steps back toward the PlugIn. Will Mom be able to see this shift on my face or hear it in my voice or read it in my vitals? How obvious is it that something interesting has happened? That I met someone, in person, who is so different from everyone else I know that he’s like me? And that I loved talking to him. It wasn’t awkward or weird. Even though we spent almost an hour together, there’s so much more to say! I can think of so many questions I wish I’d asked Basil. Like where he’s from and how old he is and if he’s in an ICM and whether he’s ever read a book that’s not about food and why he doesn’t have a Gizmo and a thousand more about the Analogs and the meeting. I can’t stop thinking about how he looked. How his eyes flashed when he was angry and how they glimmered when he was happy. How his mouth changed from a hard straight line to a soft lopsided curve when he smiled. It’s as if his image has been downloaded to my brain and is now a screensaver on the backs of my eyelids. Every time I blink, I see him in my mind.
I wonder if this is what it feels like when people find a dynamic interpersonal connection in the Procreation Pool. Except I’m only 17. Finding a person to love outside the Pool, without the help of algorithms and avatars, only happens in fiction when two people are so compatible that their desire to be together busts through the hormone barriers meant to save us from ourselves and keep the population in check. They have a word for this kind of thing in the movies. It’s called romance, and until today I thought it was a total crock of crap.
Now I’m not so sure. Maybe it was fate that I stumbled into Flav-O-Rite on a night when Basil was mixing scents. And maybe it was kismet that allowed us to sit next to one another, look each other in the eye, and let our fingers graze one another’s skin. Maybe somewhere he is thinking all the same things about me. And if he is, could this be what the Procreation Pool system is meant to re-create with its algorithmic meet-ups and synthetic hormone boosters? That thing Grandma talks about when she talks about love. My skin tingles at the thought.