by Zales, Dima
Oasis
The Last Humans: Book 1
Dima Zales
♠ Mozaika Publications ♠
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Dima Zales
www.dimazales.com
All rights reserved.
Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.
www.mozaikallc.com
Cover by Najla Qamber Designs
www.najlaqamberdesigns.com
Edited by Elizabeth from arrowheadediting.wordpress.com and Mella Baxter
e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-131-0
Print ISBN: 978-1-63142-132-7
1
Fuck. Vagina. Shit.
I pointedly think these forbidden words, but my neural scan shows nothing out of the ordinary compared to when I think phonetically similar words, such as shuck, angina, or fit. I don’t see any evidence of my brain being corrupted, though maybe it’s already so damaged that things can’t get any worse. Maybe I need another test subject—another ‘impressionable’ twenty-three-year-old Youth such as myself.
After all, I might be mentally ill.
“Oh, Theo. Not this again,” says an overly friendly, high-pitched female voice. “Besides, the words do have an effect on your brain. For instance, the part of your brain responsible for disgust lights up at the mention of ‘shit,’ yet doesn’t for ‘fit.’”
This is Phoe speaking. This time, she’s not a voice inside my head; instead, it’s as though she’s in the thick bushes behind me, except there’s no one there.
I’m the only person on this strip of grass.
Nobody else comes here because the Edge is only a couple of feet away. Few residents of Oasis like looking at the dreary line dividing where our habitable world ends and the deserted wasteland of the Goo begins. I don’t mind it, though.
Then again, I may be crazy—and Phoe would be the reason for that. You see, I don’t think Phoe is real. She is, as far as my best guess goes, my imaginary friend. And her name, by the way, is pronounced ‘Fee,’ but is spelled ‘P-h-o-e.’
Yes, that’s how specific my delusion is.
“So you go from one overused topic straight into another.” Phoe snorts. “My so-called realness.”
“Right,” I say. Though we’re alone, I still answer without moving my lips. “Because I am imagining you.”
She snorts again, and I shake my head. Yes, I just shook my head for the benefit of my delusion. I also feel compelled to respond to her.
“For the record,” I say, “I’m sure the taboo word ‘shit’ affects the parts of my brain that deal with disgust just as much as its more acceptable cousins, such as ‘fecal matter,’ do. The point I was trying to make is that the word doesn’t hurt or corrupt my brain. There’s nothing special about these words.”
“Yeah, yeah.” This time, Phoe is inside my head, and she sounds mocking. “Next you’ll tell me how back in the day, some of the forbidden words merely referred to things like female dogs, and how there are words in the dead languages that used to be just as taboo, yet they are not currently forbidden because they have lost their power. Then you’re likely to complain that, though the brains of both genders are nearly identical, only males are not allowed to say ‘vagina,’ et cetera.”
I realize I was about to counter with those exact thoughts, which means Phoe and I have talked about this quite a bit. This is what happens between close friends: they repeat conversations. Doubly so with imaginary friends, I figure. Though, of course, I’m probably the only person in Oasis who actually has one.
Come to think of it, wouldn’t every conversation with your imaginary friend be redundant since you’re basically talking to yourself?
“This is my cue to remind you that I’m real, Theo.” Phoe purposefully states this out loud.
I can’t help but notice that her voice came slightly from my right, as if she’s just a friend sitting on the grass next to me—a friend who happens to be invisible.
“Just because I’m invisible doesn’t mean I’m not real,” Phoe responds to my thought. “At least I’m convinced that I’m real. I would be the crazy one if I didn’t think I was real. Besides, a lot of evidence points to that conclusion, and you know it.”
“But wouldn’t an imaginary friend have to insist she’s real?” I can’t resist saying the words out loud. “Wouldn’t this be part of the delusion?”
“Don’t talk to me out loud,” she reminds me, her tone worried. “Even when you subvocalize, sometimes you imperceptibly move your neck muscles or even your lips. All those things are too risky. You should just think your thoughts at me. Use your inner voice. It’s safer that way, especially when we’re around other Youths.”
“Sure, but for the record, that makes me feel even nuttier,” I reply, but I subvocalize my words, trying my best not to move my lips or neck muscles. Then, as an experiment, I think, “Talking to you inside my head just highlights the impossibility of you and thus makes me feel like I’m missing even more screws.”
“Well, it shouldn’t.” Her voice is inside my head now, yet it still sounds high-pitched. “Back in the day, when it was not forbidden to be mentally ill, I imagine it made people around you uncomfortable if you spoke to your imaginary friends out loud.” She chuckles, but there’s more worry than humor in her voice. “I have no idea what would happen if someone thought you were crazy, but I have a bad feeling about it, so please don’t do it, okay?”
“Fine,” I think and pull at my left earlobe. “Though it’s overkill to do it here. No one’s around.”
“Yes, but the nanobots I told you about, the ones that permeate everything from your head to the utility fog, can be used to monitor this place, at least in theory.”
“Right. Unless all this conveniently invisible technology you keep telling me about is as much of a figment of my imagination as you are,” I think at her. “In any case, since no one seems to know about this tech, how can they use it to spy on me?”
“Correction: no Youth knows, but the others might,” Phoe counters patiently. “There’s too much we still don’t know about Adults, not to mention the Elderly.”
“But if they can access the nanocytes in my mind, wouldn’t they have access to my thoughts too?” I think, suppressing a shudder. If this is true, I’m utterly screwed.
“The fact that you haven’t faced any consequences for your frequently wayward thoughts is evidence that no one monitors them in general, or at least, they’re not bothering with yours specifically,” she responds, her words easing my dread. “Therefore, I think monitoring thoughts is either computationally prohibitive or breaks one of the bazillion taboos on the proper use of technology—rules I have a very hard time keeping track of, by the way.”
“Well, what if using tech to listen in on me is also taboo?” I retort, though she’s beginning to convince me.
“It may be, but I’ve seen evidence that can best be explained as the Adults spying.” Her voice in my head takes on a hushed tone. “Just think of the time you and Liam made plans to skip your Physics Lecture. How did they know about that?”
I think of the epic Quietude session we were sentenced to and how we both swore we hadn’t betrayed each other. We reached the same conclusion: our speech is not secure. That’s why Liam, Mason, and I now often speak in code.
>
“There could be other explanations,” I think at Phoe. “That conversation happened during Lectures, and someone could’ve overheard us. But even if they hadn’t, just because they monitor us during class doesn’t mean they would bother monitoring this forsaken spot.”
“Even if they don’t monitor this place or anywhere outside of the Institute, I still want you to acquire the right habit.”
“What if I speak in code?” I suggest. “You know, the one I use with my non-imaginary friends.”
“You already speak too slowly for my liking,” she thinks at me with clear exasperation. “When you speak in that code, you sound ridiculous and drastically increase the number of syllables you say. Now if you were willing to learn one of the dead languages…”
“Fine. I will ‘think’ when I have to speak to you,” I think. Then I subvocalize, “But I will also subvocalize.”
“If you must.” She sighs out loud. “Just do it the way you did a second ago, without any voice musculature moving.”
Instead of replying, I look at the Edge again, the place where the serene greenery under the Dome meets the repulsive ocean of the desolate Goo—the ever-replicating parasitic technology that converts matter into itself. The Goo is what’s left of the world outside the Dome barrier, and if the barrier were to ever come down, the Goo would destroy us in short order. Naturally, this view evokes all sorts of unpleasant feelings, and the fact that I’m voluntarily gazing at it must be yet another sign of my shaky mental state.
“The thing is decidedly gross,” Phoe reflects, trying to cheer me up, as usual. “It looks like someone tried to make Jell-O out of vomit and human excrement.” Then, with a mental snicker, she adds, “Sorry, I should’ve said ‘vomit and shit.’”
“I have no idea what Jell-O is,” I subvocalize. “But whatever it is, you’re probably spot on regarding the ingredients.”
“Jell-O was something the ancients ate in the pre-Food days,” Phoe explains. “I’ll find something for you to watch or read about it, or if you’re lucky, they might serve it at the upcoming Birth Day fair.”
“I hope they do. It’s hard to learn about food from books or movies,” I complain. “I tried.”
“In this case, you might,” Phoe counters. “Jell-O was more about texture than taste. It had the consistency of jellyfish.”
“People actually ate those slimy things back then?” I think in disgust. I can’t recall seeing that in any of the movies. Waving toward the Goo, I say, “No wonder the world turned to this.”
“They didn’t eat it in most parts of the world,” Phoe says, her voice taking on a pedantic tone. “And Jell-O was actually made out of partially decomposed proteins extracted from cow and pig hides, hooves, bones, and connective tissue.”
“Now you’re just trying to gross me out,” I think.
“That’s rich, coming from you, Mr. Shit.” She chuckles. “Anyway, you have to leave this place.”
“I do?”
“You have Lectures in half an hour, but more importantly, Mason is looking for you,” she says, and her voice gives me the impression she’s already gotten up from the grass.
I get up and start walking through the tall shrubbery that hides the Goo from the view of the rest of Oasis Youths.
“By the way”—Phoe’s voice comes from the distance; she’s simulating walking ahead of me—“once you verify that Mason is looking for you, do try to explain how an imaginary friend like me could possibly know something like that… something you yourself didn’t know.”
2
Campus can look gorgeous when the sun is about to set. It’s one of the few times the color red enters the Institute’s premises. Green is usually the predominant hue around these parts—green from the grass, green from the trees, and green from the ivy covering all the structures. It would all be green if the ivy had its way, but some of the more resistant parts of the Institute’s buildings are still silver and glass.
I pass the triangular prism shape of the Middle-Grade Dormitory and see the children out and about; their Lectures end much earlier than ours.
“Mason is by the northeast side of the campus,” Phoe directs me.
“Thanks,” I whisper back and turn toward the cuboid shape of the Lectures Building in the distance. “Now can you please shut up and give me ten minutes of feeling like I’m not insane?”
Phoe pointedly doesn’t reply. If she thinks that giving me the silent treatment when I ask her to shut up is going to annoy me, then she knows me far too poorly, especially for a figment of my imagination.
As I walk, I attempt to focus on how much I’m enjoying the silence, in part because I am, but mostly because I want to irritate Phoe.
The silence doesn’t last long. As I approach the green expanse of the Recreation Field, I hear the excited voices of Youths playing Frisbee. When I get closer, I see that most of them are aged thirty and up, though a few of the Youths are in their twenties, like me.
A little farther, I notice a couple of teenaged Youths deep in meditation. I observe their serene faces with envy. My own meditation practice has recently gone down the drain. Every time I try to do anything soothing, my mind buzzes and I’m unable to find my center.
My stomach grumbles, yanking me out of my thoughts.
I put my palm out, and in an instant, a warm bar of Food appears in my hand. I take a hungry bite, and my taste buds explode with sensations. Every bar of Food has a unique ratio of saltiness, sourness, sweetness, bitterness, and umami, and this specific bar is particularly savory. I enjoy the taste. Eating is one of the few pleasures that insanity hasn’t ruined for me—at least not yet.
“Well, Food does have its hedonistic value,” Phoe says, grudge apparently forgotten, “if not much else.”
I keep eating while trying to make my mind blank. I have a feeling Phoe is itching to say something else. She likes to shock me, like when she explained that Food is assembled by tiny machines at my whim.
“Nano-sized machines,” she corrects. “And yes, Food is assembled, just like most tangible objects in Oasis.”
“So what isn’t assembled?” I ask, though I’m not sure I believe her.
“Well, I don’t think the buildings are, though I’m not sure,” Phoe says. “Certainly the Augmented Reality stuff, like your Screen and half of the prettier-looking trees on this campus, are not assembled, since they’re not tangible in any way. And living things aren’t assembled either. Although, if I were a stickler, I’d argue that living things in general are powered by nanomachines, just of a different kind.” Her voice is as excited as Liam’s gets when he’s planning a prank.
Ignoring her prattle, I take another bite and pointedly thank the Forebears for Food.
“Did you do that to annoy me?” Phoe asks. “Did you just thank those technology-fearing simpletons for making this gratuitous choice on your behalf? I told you, your body could be tuned so that your internal nanobots would make eating and waste management completely unnecessary.”
“But that would make my already-boring life noticeably more boring.” I lick what’s left of the Food bar off my fingers.
“We can debate this later,” Phoe says, thankfully leaving the topic alone. “Mason is in the rock garden—and you’ve passed it.”
“Thanks,” I think at her and retrace my steps.
When I enter the rock garden, I see a guy sitting on the grass at the far end, near the silver dodecahedron statuette. His back is to me, so I can’t tell who it is, but he does look like Mason.
I approach quietly, not wanting to startle the Youth in case he’s in a meditative trance.
He must not have been, because even though I’m walking softly, the Youth hears me and turns around. His face resembles that of Eeyore, the donkey from an ancient cartoon.
“Hey, dude,” I say, trying my best to hide my annoyance at Phoe. This is Mason, and he’s exactly where she told me he’d be, and I indeed don’t have a good explanation for how an imaginary friend would know t
his.
In fact, I don’t have a good explanation for many things Phoe can do, such as make me exempt from Oneness—
“Theo,” Mason says, looking slightly surprised. “You’re here. I was about to go looking for you or Liam.”
“I told you so,” Phoe whispers in my mind.
“What did you want?” I say to Mason. To Phoe, I subvocalize, “And you, be quiet. And yes, I’m choosing this way of responding to you because it’s easier to show my irritation. I don’t know if I can think irritatingly.”
“Oh, trust me, you can,” Phoe says, not bothering to whisper. “Your thoughts can be very irritating.”
Mason doesn’t hear her, of course, but I notice how hesitant he is to continue speaking. He looks around furtively, and when he’s satisfied that we’re alone, he whispers, “Eway eednay otay alktay.”
“That’s, ‘We need to talk,’” I think at Phoe.
“I know what that means,” Phoe says so loudly that I picture my ears popping. “I was the one who dug up that article about Pig Latin from the ancient archives for you,” she adds with less outrage and at a lower decibel level.
“Let’s walk as we talk,” I reply to Mason in Pig Latin. “We’re late for Lectures.”
“Whateveray,” Mason replies and gets up from the grass. As he stands, I see that his shoulders are noticeably hunched, as though his head is too heavy for his body.
“It’s ‘ateverwhay,’” I correct him as we begin walking toward the tetrahedron Kindergarten Building.
“Whatever,” Mason says without code, shuffling beside me.
I’m about to say something sarcastic, but Mason startles me by saying in code, “I’m too upset to get this stuff right.”
I look at him in confusion, but he continues, “No, not just upset.” His voice is losing vitality by the second. Stopping, Mason gives me a morose look. “I’m depressed, Theo.”