“Slowly, throughout the day.” Daniel eyes me seriously. “When your friend almost came in here, that woke me up pretty fast. That old lady –.”
“Ruth,” I correct, watching him suspiciously.
He nods in agreement. “Ruth, told the girl that you had already taken care of the linens. But just a few minutes ago she almost came in here again. Only stopped when she heard you at the door.” He smiles a bit. “Good timing!”
I don’t return the gesture. Now that he’s awake, my pity for him has faded tenfold, and though I can’t quite explain the source of my impatience, it’s flowing through me stronger than ever. Maybe just the fact that his appearance has caused me so much grief, and endangered Ruth and James in the meantime.
“So, how are you feeling?” I ask slowly, not out of concern so much as to gauge how soon I can get him back to the Neithers and out of my care.
He shrugs, though gingerly. “Okay. Better than I would have thought. I guess I’ve been well-cared for.”
His stab at flattery barely registers with me. “Well, whenever you feel strong enough, I can help you get back.”
With a tilt of his head, he questions, “Back?”
“Yeah, back to the Neithers.”
“The who?”
I rub my eyes wearily. “Oh, sorry. That’s just what we call you guys up here. Like, neither Optic nor Plenty.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” I’m certain he’s joking, but his stoic visage shows nothing of it.
“The people who live under the city, in the tunnels? Who don’t live off of the government rations? Aren’t you one of them?”
“No,” he answers innocently. “I don’t think so.”
“Then where did you come from?”
“There,” he gestures wildly around us. “Out there somewhere.”
“You mean in the tunnels?” I feel my eyebrows meet above my eyes. “Then you are a Neither.”
“No, no. Farther out there. Outside of all of this.” There’s a certainty in Daniel’s voice that wants to shatter all of my assumptions, but I quickly pass it off as delirium. He must not be as well-recovered as I thought. Maybe I’ll have more luck with a different question.
“Then if you’re from out…there, why did you come here?”
He looks at me oddly for a moment, as though deep in thought but somehow still focused on my face. After a few long seconds, he shakes his head, brow knit in a mix of unease and confusion, and earnestly states, “I don’t remember.”
Those Awake in the Night
A faint tapping on the distant door burrows its way down the hallway and into the room, drawing me gently out of my sleep. And the crack of my head as it hits the shelf above me snaps me the rest of the way. It takes me a good minute to remember where I am. The linen closet.
On the opposite side of the space, Daniel is snoring softly, at peace even despite his injuries and the uncertainty of his situation. We spoke softly for an hour after I found him hiding under the towels, exchanging explanations about the city and working to unravel the mystery of where exactly he has come from. His memories, he said, start only a couple of months back, when he woke up lying on a cold, hard table in a bright white room, the shape of a human hand, his own hand, stamped forever over his vision. He had absolutely no memory of where he was, who he was, or how he arrived, but the people who came in, all wearing long white shirts that buttoned down the front, repeatedly addressed him as Daniel. They questioned him about people, places and ideas he had never heard of, and drew blood from his arm with a silver needle dozens of times a day, never explaining, but always seeking explanations.
After a few days of this, a man had come in with long, silver hair brushed back from his face, who seemed kind at first but quickly proved his compassion a poorly constructed façade. When Daniel asked me if I knew him, I told him the truth.
Yes, I know exactly who that is.
Mack took the honor of deliberately breaking Daniel’s wrists, though I was spared the exact details of how he went about it, and throwing him down into a stinking, five-meter deep pit. Daniel quickly became ill from whatever putrid water had permeated the sludge at the bottom, and was certain that they had left him to die. But instead they kept him on the edge of life, not dead but neither living. That part didn’t surprised me at all. To die would have been to escape – not the government’s way.
When I asked him what he had done to earn such torture, though, he explained my question away with a series of words that made little sense to me. Scientific research, he guessed, that he was their test subject. When I told him I didn’t know what he meant, he raised his eyebrows, scratched his head in consideration, and finally said, they were learning.
I don’t think that’s the right word, I countered. Learning means finding out something new.
That’s exactly what they were doing, he responded. How do you learn what will happen to a human being in those particular conditions?
And then I understood, but it wasn’t a welcome realization. I didn’t want to say it, but he waited.
You put someone there, I finally said.
But why you? I continued. If they wanted to know, why wouldn’t they test it on themselves?
I answered my own question the moment I asked it, but my heart grew heavy when Daniel did too. He looked down at his injured body and said, Do you think they wanted to do this to themselves?
I shook my head and had to resist a shudder, both at what they had done and at what I had done. Without any explicit reason, his story set me to fretting over Ruth and James, and though it brought me a measure of guilt, I fell asleep fitfully wondering if it had been a mistake to help Daniel after all. I don’t know who he is, but he isn’t any ordinary Neither. Anyone of such significance to the Governors is a dangerous person to help.
The rapping on the door snaps me back to attention, and I trot quickly towards it, concerned that the racket will wake the other sleeping members of the house. But I fight with myself for a moment before opening the door. Could this be the guards on some sort of midnight raid? It’s certainly not unheard of in the city, but I wonder if they would ever actually invade a Plenty’s home.
But if their intentions were really so confrontational, I realize, they never would have waited this long for me to let them in. The guards have ways around such courtesies as knocking. In answer to my concern, a muffled voice sounds at the crack, a young voice. “Io! Io, open the door!”
When I do, abruptly, a pair of teenagers falls in at my feet, scrambling upright to stand before me beaming. A pair of names rises up with them: Aaron and Trisha, among the feistier Optics of the most recent class.
I reach around behind them to shut the door and stand back to glance expectantly between their glowing faces. Whatever the cause for their unrestrained excitement, it’s got them shifting incessantly and tapping their feet like they have somewhere they desperately need to be.
“What’s up?” I whisper.
“Are you coming to the meeting?!” Aaron exclaims, more an outburst than a question. Trisha elbows him hard. “Shut up! You’ll wake her Plenties!”
I shake my head slowly. “Meeting?”
“You didn’t hear about it? I thought you of all people…”
Trisha cuts him off, and in muted tones explains, “The Optics are having an extra meeting tonight. Peter wanted us to get you. He has an idea and he thinks you’ll be able to help.”
Peter. Peter Rumsfeld. To hear his name alone associated with this meeting is enough to make me want to stay far, far away from it. I’ve never known him well, only another name tossed around by the guards a little more often than the average Optic’s, but I know his reputation: the darker side to my history of lighthearted mischief. Where I act in defense, he chooses pure offense, not just rebelling against the government, but explicitly attacking it, a tendency that landed him in a lot of trouble a few years ago. What they did to discourage him, or more likely what they did to him, I don’t know, bu
t it was incredibly effective in its aim and when he finally did reappear from the government’s custody, he never spoke a word against them again. Until, apparently, now. I suppose hunger can draw out a person’s bolder side.
They’re watching my face in suspense, waiting to see if they’ve done their job, but at the first sign of hesitation, Trisha motions me forward to whisper sharply in my ear, “It’s not in the regular place. It’s by the garbage chute, which means…”
“Which means it’s very important,” I finish heavily. With its stench and its filth, the space beside the garbage chute is primed for security against even the hardiest of the guards. Nobody goes that deep below the city unless they have to. If we’re holding it there, this meeting is no joking matter.
“Okay,” I finally concede. “What time?”
Trisha smiles again and her eyes grow wide with elation. “Right now. Everyone’s already there.”
And before I have a chance to reconsider my decision, they’ve swung open the door, taken hold of my arms, and marched me out into the darkness.
So much for not breaking any more rules today.
Questions Best Not Answered
“Who ever said that they should be the ones deciding the rations? Who ever said that they should be the ones making all the decisions? Who ever said that they, just one percent – one percent – of the population of this city should have all the power while 99 percent of us have nothing?”
Before the heavy, black door has creaked open on its hinges, Peter’s voice resonates through the walls, as proud and ceremonial as Mr. Watson’s. Each of his questions, though scarcely requiring a response, is answered with a vigorous swell of, “Nobody!”
They mutter amongst themselves as he pauses to catch his breath, but the room goes silent as death at the protest of the doors’ underused hinges. All heads turn our way in expectation, and I grab Trisha and Aaron’s sleeves and force them through ahead of me. I refuse to make some grand, dramatic entrance, even if it is unintentional.
Many of the faces are familiar as I make my way toward the very back, half to hide among the crowd and half to get as far away from the stench as possible. Peter is standing on a section of the garbage chute itself, a makeshift stage from which he can look out over the group of maybe a hundred. A few curious heads pop up above the rest to follow my progress. The news of my fainting must have spread after all.
Unaware of his audience’s distraction, Peter continues, “We have tried to reason with them, to be diplomatic and courteous in our approach to this issue, but the Governors have been unyielding, unwilling to provide either explanation or solution. So in the interest of our own wellbeing as Optics, I propose a change of tactic. If the government won’t provide us with the food we need to work and thrive, then we will have to obtain it ourselves.”
While some Optics remain silent, considering his words, analyzing them, a good half of the room bursts into applause immediately. He’s playing off of their fear and frustration. This is what they want to hear. Fueled by their unhesitant support, his voice grows stronger, bolder.
“We know, as of now, that the Governors keep vast stores of food somewhere in the tunnels below this city, and we know that these stores are kept well-stocked. If our rations are decreasing, yet there is ample supply, then where is all the food going?”
The crowd grows hushed, hanging with bated breath on his every word.
“I said,” he demands. “WHERE IS ALL THE FOOD GOING?”
“To the Governors’ stomachs!” a single voice cries, before it is lost among a raucous roar of approval.
“Exactly!” He sounds like he’s fighting to be heard, but I know they’re listening, because the moment he turns to specifics, they’re all ears. “So here is my proposition. One!” He holds a finger in the air. “We determine the location of the stores. Two!” A second finger joins it. “We overpower the guards, even if it’s by sheer numbers. And Three!” Peter turns deadly serious, staring out into the crowd as though making eye contact with every single person. Even I feel the pressure of his gaze on me. With his blonde hair, pale skin and white uniform, he stands with an ethereal glow that seems to extinguish the blackness of the grubby walls behind him. The personification of hope in this dismal setting. His voice becomes almost a whisper. “Three. We take back what is ours.”
I find myself backing away as the explosion of noise before me fills the entire room. As far as we may be from the Governors and the Plenties, there’s no knowing how close the guards are prowling, especially if they’ve received some tip off of tonight’s event.
Peter paces the stage, reeking of proud authority, until the Optics finally settle to a manageable volume. “The first step,” he mutters, as though talking to himself, “the first step could be the hardest, or the easiest.”
Without warning, he snaps to attention before the crowd, and I swear a burst of energy pulsates before him. It’s no wonder he’s managed to get them so incensed.
“If anybody in this room knows the location of the food stores, whether for your work or by your own personal exploration…” Now he really does look right at me. “Know that you could be the one who saves us all.”
They turn to each other, questioning, wondering, debating, until someone is clever enough to follow Peter’s gaze. Then suddenly I hear it, the exclamation I’ve been dreading.
“Io!”
My white clothes prevent me from melting into the shadows, and the farther I retreat, the more hands reach out to pull me forward.
“Io has to know it.”
“Io and Henrick.”
I can’t escape the words rising from the murmuring swarm, can’t escape Peter’s gaze, watching, waiting. He finally realizes that I’m not going to volunteer, and calls out to me, “Io, do you know where the food stores are?”
The answer is a soft yes, but I’m careful not to let Peter see that. Yes, Henrick and I have found a food store, but whether or not it’s what Peter is looking for is a matter of debate. What we found were a series of small rooms, each maybe one meter by two, with piles of unflavored white mush: not the Optics’, but the Plenties’. Upon sampling it, we quickly learned that the substance was short a few steps in its preparation procedures, and very much unfit for consumption. A single serving left us vomiting for hours. Better, we learned that day, to steal food directly from the daily stores in the kitchen. And besides, the rooms are directly below the Governors’ City, among a set of thin, winding tunnels most heavily guarded from above and nearly impossible to navigate within. Not a place to go forcing your way into.
So I shake my head and give him my favorite universal answer. “No, I don’t know.”
Troubled by my unexpectedly blunt denial, he looks to the floor for a moment, floundering. But after a few seconds more of pacing, he finds his drive again and prepares to address his audience.
“Then that leaves us only one option.” His lips set into a grim line and he finds my eyes once more. “We’ll attack the government at its core. Even if it means that some of us may be killed, even if we have to take the Plenties hostage, even if we have to burn it to the ground, we’ll take the Governors’ City.”
I don’t know if he expected me to agree or not, but at the audience’s rousing approval, he smiles and throws a meaningful wink in my direction. I shake my head. I will never, ever approve of this. This time, I don’t retreat to the corner.
“Is there something you want to say, Io? Something these guys need to hear before we start planning?” Peter asks as I come toward him. He hops down from his stage and claps me on the shoulder like we’re old friends.
“Yeah,” I reply honestly. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all!” He invites me with a sweeping gesture and even kicks his heel back against the chute to establish order in the room once again. When the silence returns, he begins to introduce me.
“Everyone, for those of you who don’t know her, this is Io Mira. She is one of the leading Optics in our –.”
“It’s okay,” I interject, well aware that he was about to declare me his right-hand man. “It’s not important.”
With a swallow, I glance across the crowd, trying to shake the natural nerves of public speaking by telling myself that this isn’t the Last Chance – or, perhaps better, that it is. These are my peers, my friends, and I’m not being judged by any standards other than those which I’ve set for myself. But the weight I’ve put on what I’m about to say and what I’m about to counter keeps me from relaxing completely. If I can’t convince them, I may be pronouncing their death sentence.
“I want to talk to you because…” I pause, preparing for the potential reaction. “Because I don’t agree with Peter’s idea.”
Whatever I’m expecting – booing, heckling, people turning to leave or calling me down off the chute – it doesn’t happen. They simply watch me as I watch them, willing to hear another side before making the final decision. I’m not giving them enough credit for their intellect.
“Attacking the Governors’ City isn’t going to get you anywhere. At most, you’ll hold it for a night, maybe eat a little better, live a little larger, and then as soon as they can, they’ll take it right back from you by force. The element of surprise will be gone, and you’ll never be able to do it again. And can you imagine the punishment for something like that? The biggest crime ever committed in the city’s history? You’ll certainly have lower rations than you do now, and they may very well blind you immediately. The sacrifice of a Plenty, but the life of someone lower than an Optic, if they don’t just kill you instead. Is that really worth a bit of extra food?”
Peter stands up beside me, and though he hides it almost perfectly, I can just detect the fury growing in his eyes. He never intended to let me upstage him. Nevertheless, he addresses me like a perfect gentleman.
“May I add something?”
“Of course.” I step back, offering him the center of the chute.
“This plan is different, Io,” he begins, but he’s talking to everyone. “Different from raiding the storehouses. This isn’t about the food anymore. It’s about proving that we can’t be bullied, that we won’t accept lies and denial instead of answers.”
Be Thou My Vision (The Population Series) Page 12