by Hannah Ross
That Madam Hart was not pleased was clear from the scowl she gave the matron before turning to Turner to say, "Mrs. Stocking has been our matron for many years. She takes care of the children from infancy, and is of course a little biased on the side of what is better for them…regardless of what must be done for the good of the society in general."
"Most natural," Turner said countering Hart's scowl with a friendly smile. "Believe me, Mrs. Stocking, Mr. Bradley. I can perfectly understand your sentiments. We are using these children extremely ill. From any civilized point of view, they are being treated barbarously. Yet what else is there to be done? For the time being, we cannot sustain population growth. It might change in the future, but right now that is a statistically proven fact. Our resources are limited, our balance extremely fragile. Throw uncontrolled population growth into the picture, and you have the makings of poverty, famine, and civil war. Still, we are a democracy, with freedom of speech and freedom of press. Forced early abortions were the most practical way to deal with those who refused to be responsible, yet this brought on an outcry. 'Impossible,' they cried! 'An intolerable violation of bodily autonomy!' Well, I don't have to explain, I'm sure. A consensus was reached. We can hand out birth control, we can campaign for zero population growth, we can fund and promote terminations of unwanted pregnancies, but we cannot make a woman have an abortion against her will, not even if she is a drug addict with a terrible record. So far, so good. And then, after the first Blameless Birth campaign, I'm sure you remember there was the terrible scandal."
"Please," said Mrs. Stocking with a shudder. "I can't bear to hear this talked of."
"I understand. And yet consider, Mrs. Stocking, that the act was horrible only from our point of view, the point of view of thinking, intelligent, rational, moral beings. A newborn has barely any consciousness. He doesn't fear, he doesn't suspect. He is warm, comfortable, and swaddled in a soft blanket. The injection was administered as carefully as possible, usually when the baby was asleep so he hardly feels a thing. And then he just…goes on sleeping. There was no suffering involved. None at all."
Mrs. Stocking seethed with indignation. "Please, Mr. Turner. It really doesn't matter which terms you use. It was mass murder, and nothing more. When the whole story came out, my husband and I both went out to the streets to protest. We were horrified, and for good reason. Nothing can justify that atrocity. Anything, is better than living in a country that kills babies just for the crime of being born."
"Most people were of your opinion, Mrs. Stocking," Turner said, "which is why the current method came into practice."
"And a great improvement it is," said Bradley, unable to hide his sarcasm. "We no longer give hour-old infants a lethal shot because we claim we cannot afford to keep them. Oh no, we send pre-teens into a dangerous, empty, polluted wilderness. Furthermore, we all signed a secrecy statement, because if the public discovers this government policy, we are risking another scandal, perhaps even a riot. And I'm sure you'll agree that's the last thing anyone wants. It's a lot nicer to let people think the illegal children are merely brought up to do menial jobs."
"Some are, you know," Turner said. "Only the quotas for such workers are far lower than the actual numbers of our excess population, which always surprises me. One would think that, with how crowded our Urban Islands are, and with how rigorously the population control laws are upheld, we would hardly have any…umm…transgressions. Yet they keep on happening, and the children are, of course, the ones who suffer."
These last words, with much stronger emotion than was heard in Turner's voice, echoed in the motherly heart of Mrs. Stocking. She knew each child in the orphanage from early infancy. She watched them grow, soothed their nightmares, and nursed them through childhood illnesses. She knew every face, every name, every character, and something about which her charges had no idea – the background story of each child. In a way, she felt as if they were her own children. She often wished she could take some of them home once in a while, to visit her family, so they could all sit together around the big table and eat and talk and laugh. But it was impossible. The children seldom left the school premises, and when they did, contact between them and Class A citizens was forbidden. They were not allowed to talk of their fate, plead for change, or awaken pity. They were only permitted to live, for a certain number of years, on the fringes of society.
Mrs. Stocking thought of all the children together, and each one separately. She thought of little Cora Wood, who had been adopted by a stroke of good luck and of an older boy who became hysterical every time departure was mentioned, and had to be given drugs to cope with his panic. She thought of the beautiful and gentle Elisa Wood, who could have been the pride of any parent, but who was ruthlessly discarded because of an easily-corrected defect. And she thought of another boy, a boy who was different from his peers in a way he could not suspect. His mother loved and wanted him, and gave him a name. All these years later I can still hear her say, 'His name is Benjamin.' I wonder what Mr. Turner and Madam Hart would say if they knew his mother never completely lost sight of him.
Direct contact with the biological parents was strictly forbidden. As far as most bio-parents were concerned, it was as if their children had never been born. Yet Benjamin's mother had sensed the sympathy of Mrs. Stocking and would not give up. She wanted to know about her son, and Mrs. Stocking's good heart overpowered her judgment. She was sometimes able to give his mother reports of Benjamin's growth and progress. There was even a hidden spot beyond the school gates, from which the she could, once in a while, catch a glimpse of the boy.
Next time we meet, I'll have to tell that poor woman she will never see or hear about her son again. Her heart ached at the thought.
By half-past nine, the lights were out, and most of the boys, used to early hours, were already asleep. However, the door to the corridor was ajar and a dim night lamp in the hallway cast some light on the two nearest beds. Their occupants were propped up on their elbows, talking in low voices.
"Do you ever think about what it's like out there?" Tom White asked. His voice betrayed his anxiety.
Benjamin's stare was fixed on the peeling grey wall, but he was clearly seeing something beyond. An almost dreamy smile appeared on his lips. "Like in the old books, I guess. From before the War. There's space. You look around and all you see is this great big space. That's what I imagine."
Tom did not appear to be reassured. "Yeah, but in the old stories, you always get somewhere after you cross all that space, to a city, or even a town or a village. We'll get nowhere, or at least, nowhere with people."
"There might be people. They've been chucking people out for years. We're bound to run into some of them."
"If we do, I hope they're friendly."
Benjamin grinned. "They have to be friendlier than Madam Hart." The faraway, dreamy look filled his eyes again. "To tell you the truth, I kind of look forward to going."
Tom shook his head. "You're nuts."
"I'm sick of school. I'm sick of being shut in here, of being treated like garbage. Mrs. Stocking is alright, but almost everyone else looks at us like we're a useless pile of…"
"Will you keep it down?" sounded a hoarse voice from one of the beds farther down the narrow, dark room. "If you don't shut up, you'll be in trouble."
Benjamin gave a hollow laugh and raised his voice a bit. "Don't you see? We are trouble. At least, that's what they think." A sigh later, his voice lowered. "Anyway, at least something is finally going to happen."
He slept fitfully that night. It was finally beginning to dawn on him that life as he knew it was coming to an end. He dreamed of standing in the middle of an enormous plain, looking at a great, big green emptiness as far as his eyes could see. A bright warm sun shone in a cloudless blue sky. The wind ruffled his hair and he heard the sound of laughter. The dream was so life-like he woke laughing, and in the first moments of consciousness, was not sure where he was. Then the reverie faded and he saw he was still in the
orphanage, in the same room he had known for years, and the sunlight looked almost greyish as it struggled to pass through a scratched, grimy window.
The alarm bell must have already rung as the dormitory was almost empty. He wondered how he had missed the shrill, harsh sound. Usually he woke at dawn, well before the alarm, and was one of the first to make it down to breakfast.
As he sat up and reached for his pants, Tom walked out of the bathroom, already fully dressed. "Hey. I didn't know if I should wake you. I don't remember you ever sleeping this long."
Benjamin rubbed his eyes. "It didn't feel long."
He dressed in a few quick, efficient movements, and within two minutes the boys were on their way to the dining hall where they found the usual, unappetizing cold toast, skim milk, stale Cornflakes, lumpy scrambled eggs, fake butter spread, and limp slices of fake cheese. Still, they hurried to grab and fill trays then looked for an empty table. There were none, but he spotted Elisa, who was sitting alone, squeezed into a corner between a wall and a window, a half-eaten piece of toast suspended in her hand. Her vacant stare out the window at the empty courtyard made him wonder what she was thinking.
She started at his, "Mind if we join you?"
When she saw them, she brightened. "Hi, Ben. Hi, Tom. I thought I'd missed you. Did you know there's no English today? Mr. Hughes is off sick."
"I thought he sounded hoarse last time. Well, at least I hoped so," Tom said, grinning. "So, that's first period off. What are we going to do?"
"I thought…I thought we might see if Mr. Bradley is in the staff room."
"What for?" asked Benjamin.
"Don't you see?" She paused, stared at them for a few seconds, then shook her head. "No, you don't. We're going to be on our own soon and the lessons aren't enough to really prepare us. And we don't have many of those left, anyway. We should try and ask him as many questions as possible about his expeditions, what's waiting for us out there, where we should go once we are out…everything we can think of."
Ben and Tom exchanged glances. Finally, Ben shrugged. "Why not?"
They did find Mr. Bradley in the staff room, alone, with a half-empty cup of cold coffee at his elbow, and his red pen hovering over some homework assignments he was checking.
When Elisa cleared her throat, he lifted his head from the papers, looking quite pleased to have an excuse to postpone the tedious work. "Good morning. We wondered if we can speak to you."
"Of course. Come in. I think I have the staff room to myself for the next hour."
Children were not allowed in the staff room, but Mr. Bradley was always ready to bend the rules a little, provided nobody would notice.
Elisa explained the purpose of their visit.
"Of course," he said, nodding. "That's quite sensible. You can never learn too much, especially…well, I have some maps of the area." He pulled one from his briefcase, unfolded it, and jabbed a finger onto a spot close to the branching-out stream of a larger river.
"You are expected to start here. It's a good spot. I fished there once, and the haul was great. Sunfish, catfish, bass… Things change year-round, of course, but you should do well."
"And did you…eat it?" Tom asked.
"What? Oh, you're wondering about the pollution. So did I, but I felt I owed it to myself to make a little experiment. And as you can see…" Mr. Bradley spread his arms wide, smiling. "…I'm intact and whole and never even sensed any off taste in the fish, the game, or the wild herbs and mushrooms I ate while I was beyond the Boundary."
He rummaged more in his briefcase, found a thin, rather tattered book and handed it over to Elisa. "Here. You might find this an interesting read. This was written before the War. Long before, actually, by a couple of people who were crazy about 'living off the land' as they called it. The War caused some changes in the ecosphere, to be sure, but the animals and birds, the fish, and plants are still much the same as they used to be. And you'll have another resource, one the people who wrote this book didn't have…abandoned towns and cities. Visit them to get equipment, clothes, even canned food, if you dare to try it. There might still be some in underground storage that's good."
Ben studied Bradley's face. An uneasy expression appeared on it as Elisa put the book in her bag and said, "Thanks, Mr. Bradley."
"You're welcome. Look, come and talk to me as often as you like. Anytime I'm not in class. I'd like to help in any way I can. And remember, it's quite natural to be afraid. I know I'd be scared out of my wits if I were in your place."
Benjamin tried to look confident as he said, "We aren't afraid," but he could tell Mr. Bradley did not believe him. He hardly knew whether he believed it himself.
3
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The sky above was overcast and it was uncomfortably cold, but the merciless calendar spelled April, so a string of twelve-year-old children, loaded with backpacks, could be seen milling about in the driveway close to the school gates. There were no smiles, no laughter; just nervous whispers. Mr. Bradley frowned as he looked at his watch, while Mrs. Stocking fidgeted with her coat, zipping and unzipping it again and again. At the front entrance, close enough to supervise but far enough away not to have to speak to any of the children, Madam Hart and her lofty stare stood with arms folded and back straight
"It should be here any minute now," muttered Mr. Bradley, his voice heard almost by no one.
Sure enough, no sooner did he say it than the school gates opened and an odd-looking bus crept up the short narrow driveway. The children stared at it in surprise. It was nothing like the bus that took them to their rare school outings. Not only did it look old, as if it were made before the War, but it was absolutely plain, without symbols or letters or stickers of any kind, and was covered in chipped dark grey paint. Its square windows were thick dark glass.
Mrs. Stocking shook her head. I suppose it's a blessing the children don't know those buses are used to convey prisoners.
Still, the sight of it gave many of them an ominous feeling.
Ben stuck his elbow in Tom's ribs. "Here comes the vehicle of Doom." It was a brave attempt at humor, and contrary to his habit, but Tom did not crack a smile.
Once the bus stopped, the children looked around, as if waiting for instruction. None came, but Mrs. Stocking and her good soul rushed toward them and started hugging them one by one, as she fought to restrain her tears.
"Well, this is it. This is it. You be good, now, all of you, and don't do anything foolish or reckless. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Ben and Tom? And you, Alec? This isn't a game, so none of your pranks, alright? Take care of yourselves, and of each other. And girls, I trust you to keep those boys in check. Won't you, Elisa? You're a clever girl. I know you will. So you all just keep your heads down, and remember all you've learned from Mr. Bradley and…"
Her speech was cut short by a piercing, heart-rending wail. Everyone spun around to see a boy flailing and writhing on the ground, next to his discarded backpack.
"No!" he screamed. "No! Nooooooooooo! I'm not going! I'm not! You won't make me! I'll die out there! Please let me stay! I'll sleep on the floor, I'll do all the work, all the cleaning, and dishes, and anything you tell me! Find me a place on a farm, in a factory, in a prison – anywhere, anywhere, just don't send me out!"
"I knew Jimmy Stone would crack," Tom whispered to Ben and Elisa.
The whole group of children stared at him as if mesmerized. Some faces showed pity, others disgust, but most just watched as Jimmy half-raised himself from the ground, tremulously wiped his snot with his sleeve, then crawled on his knees toward Madam Hart, and attempted to seize the hem of her dark wool coat. She recoiled from his hand, looking scandalized.
"Madam Hart, please, I'm begging you, Madam Hart. Let me stay, and I'll do anything, anything. I don't want to die! I don't! I don't!"
Revolted by the unseemly display, Hart took another step back. "Mr. Bradley!"
The teacher hurri
ed to her aid, seized the trembling boy under his armpits, and pulled him up.
"Come on, Jim. Up you get, now. That's a good lad. Mrs. Stocking, could you fetch something to calm him down?"
"I'll get his pills," she said and hurried up the stairs.
Still holding him in a firm grip, Bradley brushed the dirt off Jimmy's clothes while the other children continued to stare. Some had their heads bent together, whispering.
Madam Hart shook her head. "Pathetic," she muttered. "He will never make it. It would have been kinder to administer the death shot straightaway. It's a pity it's no longer allowed."
Jimmy was far too upset to take in a word of what she said, and most of the other children stood too far away, but Elisa Wood's face darkened as if she had been slapped. She hurried to Jimmy and took him by the arm, murmuring soothing words. Together, she and Mr. Bradley guided him to the bus, followed by Ben, Tom, and the rest of the children.
As the scene played out, and the children filed into the bus, no one knew they were being watched. From the spot where Rebecca Hurst came to know pain and pleasure for many years as she caught furtive glimpses of her son walking across the yard, playing at recess, and talking to his friends, she now witnessed the unusual spectacle. She was too far away to hear what was said, but Jimmy's cries, like those of a wounded, desperate animal, made her heart break. When she saw her Benjamin line up, ready to step inside, her eyes widened with worry. She had to use every ounce of self-control she possessed to prevent herself from dashing out of her hiding place, throwing arms around the skinny's boy's neck, telling everybody that he belonged to her, that she is his mother, and that it was a mistake, a terrible, unpardonable weakness to ever give him up.
Minutes later, tears rolled down her face as she watched the bus disappear on the horizon.
The ride was long, and most of the children were getting restless. Benjamin fidgeted in his seat. He, Tom, and Elisa had seats too far from the driver to be able to glimpse anything through the windshield, and the dull brown, bullet-proof, wire-mesh covered windows along the sides and back, designed to prevent desperate prisoners from trying to escape, allowed in only a bit of light and a murky hint of landscape. They also served another function, that of preventing the prisoners, and children, from being seen by curious eyes.