Oasis (The Last Humans Book 1)

by Zales, Dima

  I halt in shock. “You’re what?” I say, forgetting Pig Latin.

  “Yes. Yes, the taboo word.” He flexes his fingers, then lets them droop. “I’m fucking depressed.”

  I look at his face for signs that he’s joking, even though this isn’t a joke-conducive topic, but I see none. His expression is gloomy, consistent with his revelation.

  “Mason…” I swallow. “I don’t know what to say.”

  I’m glad he said his revelation in code. Even so, I look around to make sure we’re still walking alone.

  There are two problems with what he just said. The first one is minor: he said the word ‘fucking’ out loud. That can lead to a day’s worth of Quietude for him and some trouble for me if I don’t squeal on him for using profanity (which I never would, of course). Infinitely worse, though, is that he said he was ‘depressed’—not to mention, he meant it. That word represents an idea so unthinkable I don’t know what the punishment for it would be. It’s one of those needless taboos like, ‘Don’t eat your friends.’ The rule probably exists, but since no one’s ever eaten someone else in the history of Oasis, you don’t know what the Adults would do if you did.

  “Whatever the consequences are, they would be bad,” Phoe thinks. “Both for cannibalism and for not being happy.”

  “Then we’re both screwed,” I subvocalize at her, “since I’m not happy.”

  “You’re not depressed,” she says. “Now quick, he’s still waiting for you to reply with something more supportive than your, ‘I dunno what to say.’ So please, be a dear and say something along the lines of, ‘What can I do to help?’” Then, worriedly, she adds, “His neural scan is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “Atwhay ancay Iway oday otay elphay?” I ask as Phoe suggested.

  Mason raises his hands to cover his face, but I glimpse moisture in his eyes. He holds his face as if it might melt if he’d let go, and I just stare at him dumbly, the way I did during a scene of the one and only horror flick I allowed Phoe to show me.

  My imagination failing me, I make the small wrist gesture required to bring up a private Screen into the air in front of me. Phoe takes that as a cue to put Mason’s neural scan on it.

  I examine the image for a second and think at Phoe, “I’ve never seen anything like it either. He’s extremely distraught.”

  “I think the reason you’ve never seen this is because you’ve never met anyone who was genuinely depressed until now,” Phoe thinks back.

  “So he really is depressed?” I subvocalize, barely stopping myself from speaking out loud. “What do I do, Phoe?”

  “Ancient texts suggest you might want to put a hand on his shoulder. Do that and don’t say anything,” Phoe says. “That should comfort him, I think.”

  I do as she suggests. His shoulder is strangely twitchy under my hand at first, but then, slowly, he lets go of his face. His expression is not completely foreign to me—little kids get it before they learn how to act civilized and look properly happy.

  Mason takes a deep breath, lets it out, and in a shaky voice says, “I told Grace how I feel, and she called me a crazy creep.”

  Stunned, I release his shoulder and step back.

  “Crap,” Phoe says, echoing my thoughts. “This is bad.”

  3

  Like I told Phoe, I’m not as happy as others in Oasis. Coincidentally, my restlessness began with Phoe. Specifically, it began when she first spoke to me a few weeks ago. No, truth be told, it started a bit later, when I learned that certain really cool stuff, like great movies, books, and video games, repeatedly get wiped from Oasis’s libraries.

  At least I assume it happens repeatedly. On my watch, it happened to Pulp Fiction, a movie Phoe had found buried deep in the ancient archives. The movie was awesome, but either because I’d accessed it or because of some horrible coincidence, Pulp Fiction got on the radar of either the Elderly or the Adults, and they deleted it. One day it was on my Screen, the next I couldn’t bring it up. Phoe said it was no longer in the archives either.

  What’s worse is this happened before I got a chance to get Liam and Mason to watch it with me. My friends didn’t even believe me when I said that the movie used to exist. Phoe was my only witness, and I’m not ready to tell Liam or Mason about her. Actually, being unable to share something with my friends for the first time in my life has also been a source of unpleasantness, but not as much as the questions that now plague me: Why delete such a good movie? Was it because it had all those banned words? Or was it the violence?

  If I asked these questions out loud, I’d get a numbingly boring Quietude session instead of answers—and that drives me nuts. So, because of all this, had anyone asked me before today, I would’ve said that I’m the one and only unhappy person in Oasis. Yet even I wouldn’t call how I feel ‘depressed.’

  “I didn’t think it was physically possible for anyone to get depressed,” Phoe whispers. “The nanocytes in your head regulate serotonin and norepinephrine re-uptake, among a million other variables that synergistically conspire to keep you nice and cheerful. On top of that, the Institute curriculum includes copious amounts of meditation, exercise, and other feel-good propaganda.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Mason repeats, his voice quivering. “I told Grace I love her.”

  He thinks I’m judging him, and it’s hard not to. Sexual interest—or romantic love, as it used to be called—is not part of our world. The only reason we even know about it is because of ancient media, which is rife with examples of people our age being ‘in love’—a state of being that sounds qualitatively different from love of Food or love for one’s friends. People even used to get ‘married’ back then and start ‘families’—two social constructs that are incredibly weird.

  Marriage I could sort of understand. It was probably like being friends with a female for a big portion of your life. I can relate to that because we used to be friends with Grace. Family, however, is just bizarre. It would be like being friends with people based on random factors, such as DNA commonalities, and with people of varying ages—including the Adults and the Elderly. Since Youths never meet the elusive Elderly and the only Adults we come across are the Instructors, I find family hard to picture.

  As to romantic love, I didn’t think anyone has any interest in that stuff. That strange emotion was a form of insanity tied to procreation, and the Elderly take care of that now—though exactly how they do it is the type of question that gets you an hour of Quietude instead of an answer.

  I know that from experience.

  “Actually, taking procreation out of the game never stopped lust or love for the ancients,” Phoe butts in. “They had something called birth control. I think the real reason these desires disappeared is because of the neutering effect of the nanocytes.” Before I can ask her about that, she continues, “Of course, given that those nanocytes are also supposed to keep you nice and cheerful, I can only assume that Mason is in this situation because his nanocytes can’t cope with whatever is malfunctioning in his brain. If I had to guess, given his prior manic phases, I’d say he’s bipolar.”

  “Theo,” Mason says, his chin trembling. “I told Grace—”

  “I heard you, dude,” I say, shutting out Phoe’s rambling explanation to focus on my friend. “I’m just at a loss for words. I told you to keep away from Grace.”

  “You also told me I was going through a phase and didn’t know what I was feeling,” Mason retorts. “As did your friend Liam.”

  Liam is closer to Mason than I’ve ever been, but now is not the time to be a stickler for definitions. When Mason confided in us, I didn’t grasp the extent of his seriousness. I thought he wanted to prove that he could be the biggest misfit in our little band of misfits—and saying shocking things such as, “I like a girl,” certainly did it, particularly because he chose the most annoying snitch as the object of his obsession.

  “So you told Grace you loved her?” I shake my head in frustration. “Don’t you understand? She
’s going to tell on you, and you’re going to be in a world of trouble.”

  Mason just looks at me. “I don’t care. You don’t understand, Theo. I’ve been thinking—” He swallows. “I’ve been thinking about ending it all.”

  “Don’t say that,” I hiss at him, horrified. “Not even in Pig Latin.”

  “But it’s true.” He sits down on the ground and stares vacantly into the distance. “Sometimes I—” His throat moves as he swallows again. He raises his head to glance at me, and I see that his eyes are red and watery. “It would be so much better if I’d never been born at all.”

  I’m overwhelmed by his words. My face must look like one of those ancient Japanese masks Phoe once showed me. Mason has been my close friend for as long as I can remember, yet it’s like I don’t know him at all. Depression and strange feelings toward Grace are bad enough, but now he’s turned the conversation toward even murkier waters.

  Death and suicide are beyond taboo. In a way, they’re somewhat academic as far as these things go. We all understand their meaning—the concept of death was too ubiquitous in antiquity for us not to come across it—but now that no one ever dies, thinking about death seems pointless. Theoretically, a freak accident could kill someone, but in reality, such an event has never occurred in the history of Oasis. So yeah, unlike cursing, I find it very easy and natural to follow this rule and never talk or even think about—

  “Stop being so self-absorbed, Theo,” Phoe chides me in my mind. “Your friend’s in pain.”

  I look at Mason, who’s now hunched over with his head buried in his hands. Taking a deep breath, I step toward him and ask, “What can I do?”

  This question is meant for both Mason and Phoe.

  “Nothing,” Mason says.

  “Find a way to get him to relax,” Phoe suggests, “and try to fix what he did with that girl.”

  “Listen, Mason. Let me take you to the Dorms,” I say, putting my hand back on his shoulder. “Take a nap instead of going to the History Lecture. I’ll tell Instructor Filomena you’re sick tonight, and I’ll talk to Grace to try to unravel this mess.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Mason says dully. “I don’t care if I’m in trouble. I don’t care about anything.”

  “That’s cool,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. “After you wake up, we’ll talk about getting into all kinds of trouble. I’m game to do a prank on Owen if you’re still up for that. You know we owe that asshole for leaving dirt in our room. Or tomorrow night we can tell Instructor Filomena to shove her History Lecture up one of her orifices.”

  The second idea brings a hint of a smile to Mason’s face. He hates our History Instructor.

  Relieved, I smile back at him. “And remember,” I say, trying to capitalize on my success, “Birth Day is in less than three days.”

  Mason loves the festivities of Birth Day as much as we all do. And why wouldn’t he? It combines all of the ancients’ holidays of birthdays, Christmas, Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, Election Day, and many others neatly into one celebration. Not to mention that we’ll all be a year closer to forty, the age when Youths become Adults and are no longer treated like little kids.

  The mention of Birth Day seems to cheer Mason up even more. “You know,” he says, “I wouldn’t even be lying if I played hooky tonight. I do feel sick.”

  “Exactly.” I make my voice extra cheerful. “You have the perfect excuse.”

  I help him up, and we head toward the Dorms.

  As we walk, I steer the conversation onto safer topics, doing my best to distract him from the funk he’s in.

  “Ask him about his bonsai tree collection,” Phoe suggests. “You know how much he likes those things.”

  Her idea makes sense, so I pretend to have developed a deep caring for Mason’s stunted little trees, and he’s glad to tell me more than anyone would ever need to know about the subject.

  As I pretend to listen, I plan my conversation with Grace. Maybe her silence can be bought with some kind of favor? Or maybe I can convince her we’re playing a prank on her? Prank penalties we can deal with.

  “This is why you have to use the clippers, not scissors, to prune the tree,” Mason says as we enter our room. Stopping, he sighs, and I see his expression darkening as he adds, “Pruning those trees is the only thing that soothes me, but even doing that hasn’t been enough.”

  I point at his corner of the room and say, “Take that nap, dude.”

  Mason stares at his corner for a moment, and then a bed materializes.

  “Actually, it’s assembled from scratch by the nanos in the utility fog,” Phoe butts in.

  “I was just thinking to myself,” I subvocalize. “This is the problem with talking to you via thoughts.”

  Mason walks over, gingerly lies down on the bed, and closes his eyes.

  I wait a beat, not knowing if I should stay until he falls asleep and unsure how I’d even tell if he were asleep.

  “He’s already asleep,” Phoe says. “He must have requested sleep as a thought command, the way he did with the bed.”

  “That guy was never a big fan of gestures,” I think at her idly and walk out of the room. “Do you know where I can find—”

  “Grace will be by the History Hall,” Phoe says, her voice echoing off the shiny, arched walls of the dormitory hallway. Clearly catching my thought, she says, “That echo effect is your brain playing tricks.” Her voice is in my mind this time.

  I start walking faster, and when I think no one is looking, I break into a run. If they catch me running, I can always lie and say I was exercising. That’s a trick invented by Liam, the guy who’s always in a hurry to get somewhere.

  As soon as I’m outside, I move over to the running path. This way no one will question my ‘exercise.’

  * * *

  I see Grace’s red hair in the corridor by the entrance to the History Hall, but before I can approach her, a hand grabs my shoulder.

  “Dude,” Liam says in his excited, screechy voice. “Where have you been all day?”

  “Not now, Liam.” I give a minute shake of my head. “I have something urgent going on.”

  “What is it?” He gives me a good-natured shove—an act that can get him as long of a Quietude session as a genuinely violent hit.

  “No time to explain.” My tone is firm and uncompromising—something that, on very rare occasions, takes Liam out of his hyperactive mode.

  “Whatever it is”—Liam bounces from foot to foot—“I’m coming along.”

  I sigh and hurry toward Grace, grateful that he’s at least stopped talking for the moment.

  “Ah, if it isn’t the Twin Stooges,” Grace says, giving Liam a chilly look and me a crooked smile.

  “It’s the Three Stooges, you ignorant twat,” Phoe says, though of course Grace can’t hear her.

  “I think she calls us twins because she thinks we’re very alike,” I think at Phoe, trying to shut her up.

  “You’re tall, blond, and blue-eyed,” Phoe says with a slight growl, “while the top of Liam’s head reaches your chin, and his hair is brown. More to the point, you’re way more handsome and a lot less twitchy than your stocky friend, and she knows it.” Her words sound as if they’re coming through clenched teeth. “I can see it in the bitch’s eyes. You and Liam couldn’t be less alike if you tried. And Mason—”

  “Mason is the reason I’m here, Phoe. The reason I need to talk to the ‘twat’—whatever that means. So please, shut it.” Despite my annoyance at her, I can’t help mentally chuckling at my imaginary friend calling me handsome. It must be some advanced form of narcissism.

  Focusing on the matter at hand, I smile at Grace, and as politely as I can, say, “Hi, Grace. I’d like to discuss something with you.”

  The bell sounds, signifying the start of the Lecture.

  “I think I know what this is about,” Grace says as she flutters her big eyelashes at me. “And it will have to wait. I won’t be late for the Lecture.”

  Before
I can say anything back, she steps between Liam and me and disappears into the classroom.

  “What was that about?” Liam says. “Let’s cut History so you can tell me about it.”

  I look my friend over. When he’s excited like this, with his shaggy hair in its usual messy state and his brown eyes twinkling, he reminds me of Taz, the Tasmanian Devil from an ancient cartoon.

  “Sorry, I can’t skip it,” I say. “I can’t get Quietude until I speak with her.”

  Without waiting for Liam to object, I follow Grace into the History Hall.

  Everybody’s already seated. Instead of gesturing to create myself a seat, I use a thought command and get my Screen up when the desk appears in front of me.

  Under the pretext of looking at the syllabus on my Screen, I study Grace.

  Like everyone else, she’s wearing a boxy, shapeless shirt and a loose pair of pants that conceal most of her body. Still, her tall, slender build is visible, and if I forget about her treacherous personality, I have to admit she’s pleasant to look at, as far as physical appearances go.

  With her symmetrical facial features, Grace reminds me of a female from ancient times.

  “That’s because all the ancients you’ve seen are models and actresses,” Phoe intrudes. “The physical attractiveness of the ancients followed a normal distribution curve, but you’re only familiar with the outliers left in the media records, and even those, after they were airbrushed…”

  “And so the history lesson begins before Filomena can open her mouth,” I subvocalize at her.

  “I had to stop you before you could decide which cartoon character Grace reminded you of,” Phoe thinks.

  “The Little Mermaid,” I reply, mostly to annoy her.

  “You’re pretty generous.” Phoe’s tone is strangely tense. “I think she looks more like Ariel’s little red crab friend.”

  “Good evening, students,” Instructor Filomena says in her nasally voice as she enters. “Have you prepared yourselves for the wonders of history?”