by Anna Kyss
We swim through the entrance pool and climb into the dining pod. Long plastic tables with attached benches line the room. The professor guides me to the front, where two covered trays await. He picks up the trays, then leads me to sit at the faded green table farthest from the front.
I open my meal and groan. Mashed kelp and tuna: my least favorite, out of all the meals served.
Professor picks up his plastic fork and writes in the smooshed pile of green: “NO LIKE?”
How clever the Professor is, to think of a way for us to practice writing! “I HAET TOONA,” I respond.
“HATE TUNA,” he corrects.
As one of the food preparation specialists walks into the room with steaming trays of food, he takes a large bite. With a subtle nudge to my foot, he encourages me to do the same. The risk of what I asked the professor for sinks in. Writing is dangerous to study, but why? Why should the written language be different than any of the other languages we preserve?
When the worker leaves the room, Professor S. begins with the first of the letter symbols, making the singular sounds under his breath. I remember them all and am eager to proceed to the more advanced work.
The professor whispers one word, and I carve it into my mushed tuna. He etches the correct letters into his own pile. We repeat again and again, stopping to take bites every time somebody enters the room. When our allotted mealtime ends and the community begins to queue for dinner, we focus on our last bites.
“TH… ANK U,” I write in the last traces of my food.
“TELL NO ONE,” he responds in the last bit of his.
~Cobalt~
5
Staring at the entrance to Dr. Cloud’s office, I search for the courage to enter. I hate these visits to Dr. Cloud. The Authority requires them—not of everybody, but of those deemed “at risk.” Typically, I must come once each work-cycle; to be forced to attend daily sessions is too much. I would rather swim in a brood of jellies.
I glance to my side. The Watcher who accompanied me here impatiently treads water. Haku was allowed to join me for the short swim to the office pods, but the Watcher constantly observes us. My guilt grew during our silent swim. She should have never been questioned; they were my mistakes to bear.
I dare not discuss anything with the Watcher’s vigilant attention on us. Haku’s ever-present dolphin grin does not hide the sadness in her eyes. She swims back and forth, to and fro; her nervousness makes me even more reluctant to knock.
I paddle backward, but Haku shoots over and nudges me back to the door. “Chey, stop sulking. You need to keep this appointment.”
“You don’t understand.” How I wish that my grumbles could be conveyed through Dolphin-speak. Clicks and whistles sound the same, no matter your mood.
Haku pushes me even closer; her strength makes resisting futile. “Stop being such an invertebrate!”
“Are you calling me spineless? Just because—”
The hatch swings open. Dr. Cloud stares down at me. “Welcome, Chevrolet.”
This is the first of many reasons why I hate Dr. Cloud. He insists on using my given name, despite the hours I have spent sharing my dislike for it. Everybody else—professors, friends, even the Authority—are sensitive to my discomfort about my odd name, but not Dr. Cloud. How am I supposed to share my true feelings when he cannot even respect my name preference?
I give one last pleading glance toward Haku before the hatch swings shut. I shuffle through the narrow chamber, swim up into Dr. Cloud’s office, and exit the water. Without shaking the water droplets off, I plop myself into the furthest chair from his desk. As silence spreads through the room, I cross my arms, hugging my shoulders.
He studies me for what seems like an eternity. “Why are you scowling?”
I sigh and look away, avoiding his relentless gaze. For the thousandth time, I wish that Dr. Cloud did not have the luxury of an oxygen-fed office, but the Authority believes that psychologists need spoken words. He obviously has never had the pleasure of sitting in this office, listening to the doctor.
“Well, Chevrolet, why the scowl?”
“You know I hate my name. Would you please just call me Chey?” I press backward, until the chair prevents further escape. The rigid material is uncomfortable for bodies used to being cushioned in the waters.
“How old were you when this hatred of your name began? Do you remember disliking your name before your parents chose to abandon you by committing the Unmentionable?”
This session is going from bad to worse quicker than a sailfish can swim. I quickly redirect the conversation back to my name, a much safer topic than my parents. “Chevrolet is so… different. Everyone else in our sector has a name from nature: the sky, the sun, trees, flowers. Who cares about an ancient piece of metal?”
“The pioneers had the right to name their offspring after what they missed most from the Surface. It was promised that these names would pass down through the generations so none forget their sacrifices and the wonders of the world we have lost.”
Verbatim from the last time we had this talk. At an impasse, yet again. I clench my teeth and try to still the tiny muscles in my face, silently cursing my great-great-great-great grandfather. He had to miss his automobile most. Surely there was something more interesting than a heap of metal! I would have chosen something exotic: Aurora, Violet, Meadow. If only I had a choice…
As the doctor continues his lecture of appreciating the losses the pioneers suffered to save us, I tune him out, wishing I could talk with anyone else. Even attending a session with someone unlearned would be better than the doctor’s cold indifference. But Dr. Cloud has refused to choose a shadow so far, someone to train to replace him someday. Shadow positions are the most prestigious and coveted among the specialties.
An icy finger runs along my neck. I shudder. I had not even noticed Dr. Cloud approaching.
He tilts my head, holds my chin upright, and examines my gill implants. I shiver again. Even the light layer of blubber underneath my scaled Skin does not blunt the repulsiveness of his touch.
He smiles, either oblivious to my discomfort or satisfied that he caused it. “I see your gills are still intact. Very nice.”
Does he really have to touch me each visit to ensure that my gills remain? My swim to his office should be enough to prove I can still breathe in the waters. I hate these visits. He brings up all of the wrong topics: my name, my parents, the Unmentionable—leaving a flood of raw feelings and no one to help me cope with the aftermath.
“Professor S. will be expecting me back at the children’s residence,” I say as I recoil from his touch. “For our lesson.”
“Lessons? While you are on pod arrest?”
“The Committee approved it,” I whisper. I should have never brought up the lessons.
“I am on the Committee! Isn’t it curious that this matter was broached while I was not in session?”
I need to leave. With each new word I utter, I am making everything worse. “Haku waits outside. May I be excused?”
“Ah, Haku. I wanted to talk about her. I feel having some time and space away from her during your pod arrest would be… beneficial. In fact, time away from your lessons might also be advantageous.”
I stare at the doctor. What is he saying? My time with Haku has already been so restricted.
“Since this is not your first offense, my recommendation is enforced solitary time to focus on your poor choices and consider the path you want to take in the future.”
“Not Haku,” I whisper. “She is all I have left.”
“You should have considered that before leaving Maluhia. Next time, I hope you do think through all potential consequences before acting.” Dr. Cloud stands. “I will send my recommendation to the Committee.”
Tears fill my eyes, which is my cue to rush for the exit pool. As I swim back into the waters, I let them flow, salty drops blending with the saline-filled seas.
Is the ocean washing away my tears? Or is it the very
cause of my pain?
~Indigo~
6
I scrub away the slimy algae that coats the inside of the acrylic porthole so I can see other members of my sector more clearly, far below. They carry about their daily routines. I place my hands on the scratched plastic, gaze out through its dull transparency, and yearn to swim.
To be free again.
A simple thing like swimming through the pod complex is easy to take for granted—until that freedom is restricted. My muscles feel tight; my legs cramp; my arms ache. My body, so used to daily exercise, fights this captivity. How will I ever tolerate pod arrest?
Only three sleeps have passed since my meeting with the Authority.
The residence mother floats into the common area. “Chey, I must say that your floor looks immaculate.”
“I just completed the last of the chores on your list.” Not only are the chores finished, but I spent extra time making the living spaces gleam—as much as the dilapidated pod could be made to shine, that is.
“Well, I am glad to see you making good use of your time. Tomorrow, you may repeat the tasks on the pre-flippers’ floor,” she clicks, heading toward the door.
“W—will you notify the Authority of my hard work?” I do not take in another gillful of water until I hear her response.
“Notify somebody of his importance that you have cleaned well? You silly girl.” She shakes her gray curls and leaves the room.
I slump to the floor, exhausted. Defeated.
All day long, I clung to the hope that the Authority would learn of my efforts, wished my exertions might affect my sentence. The isolation of pod arrest terrifies me. The absence of social interaction, the lack of intellectual stimulation, and the entrapment of the curved pod walls have combined to suck the excitement and anticipation right out of me. I mourn their loss; however fleeting these unfamiliar feelings were, they filled me with life. Now, I am just… empty.
As my self-pity and loneliness build, I can hear the mumbled sound of a dolphin’s whistle. This far-off noise makes my biggest loss, Haku, even more acute. Since we were partnered, not a day has gone by that we have not splashed through the pod complex waters together or clicked tales of our days to each other. How I miss Haku.
The whistle sounds more sharply, and I kick over to the little porthole. Haku peers through the window. She places her beak to the acrylic, and I press my face to the other side. Only the thin layer of plastic separates us.
A long silence passes until my guilt flows out. “I am so sorry… so very sorry that you were questioned. I didn’t mean to cause you trouble.”
Haku clicks, “I am not the one to worry about. How are you holding up?”
It is hard to pick up on a dolphin’s concern. The curve of their beaks provides the appearance of a constant smile. Their sleek, blubber-lined skin reveals no worry lines or tension. But Haku is my closest companion—my dolphin sister. I notice the slap of her tail against the water, the gentle huffs between her words. She worries about me.
I force my mouth up. “The change from my normal routine is… fine.”
Haku simply stares back. She knows I lie. But how can I tell her the depth of my despair when she is helpless to change anything? Why should I make the both of us suffer?
“I miss you,” I whisper.
She rubs the porthole once more with her beak. “We miss each other.”
“Besides, the Giants will arrive in three more sleeps.” I throw out the one thing that will soothe her. Haku knows how much I dream to hear their song.
It works. Her tail quiets, and she presses her beak once more to the window. “Stay strong.”
I nod. This task she has given me—staying strong—sounds easy. It is only a few more days, after all. But when the blue inside becomes deeper and more intense than all the blues in the ocean itself, nothing comes easily.
Too many people have succumbed to the bleak hopelessness that is our world and done the Unmentionable, tearing out their gills, their only means of breathing. It is whispered that long ago, in the above-water times, there was a name for ending yourself. Now, it is so common, we are not allowed to even talk of it, let alone give it a name.
Often, it is not the Unmentionable that kills them. The authorities arrive in time, provide tanks of oxygen, and take them away. Where are they taken? What becomes of them?
The not knowing is the worst. To outlive your loved ones, but to always wonder of their fate is a terrible thing. This is why I fight so hard—constantly warring with the loneliness and grief, so that I can overcome being dragged down.
I lie in my sleeping pod and imagine listening to the Song of the Giants. And pray my mind—my fortitude—will survive two more long days.
~Steel~
7
The day is finally here. I have not given in to the despair—I will not give in. The Giants are coming. I will finally hear their song; knowing this pushes away the gloom. I hurry to get ready, first running a carved-shell comb through my tangled hair, then rubbing my Skin until it shines like a pearl. I press myself to the window and watch the line of pod members swimming toward the main exit hatch—to the Deep.
Finally Professor S. approaches, and I dive down the steps of the children’s residence, not wanting to waste one precious minute of freedom.
“Eager?” Professor S. winks at me. He knows how I have longed for this day.
I swallow, my excitement nearly ruined by the reminder that so few are left to know my innermost secrets and care about my dreams. But I force the corners of my mouth upward, hoping that the remembrance of the smile will fill my body with the one feeling I crave: happiness.
Professor S. continues to look at me, the scales on his forehead overlapping—wrinkles forming underneath Skin. “I am sorry the Committee overturned their decision. How are you really doing?”
I look at him and shake my head. Please do not ask.
He stares back at me, mouth turned down. “Ready?” he finally asks.
“What are we waiting for, Professor? We cannot miss the first lyrics.” I push off and revel in the feeling of soaring through Maluhia’s waters. The feeling of freedom.
Professor S. does his best to keep up, but I need to pause and wait for him from time to time. Finally, we are at the curved wall of the pod complex, last in a long line that winds down the main pathway. I thread impatiently as we wait for the crowd to go through the hatch, which is too small to accommodate the number gathered.
Over half the community awaits, eager to hear the concerto. These are the pod members who are fighting for new experiences, who have not lost interest in the sea around them, who will likely survive. It is the remaining members of our sector we must worry about. When they no longer care about something so rare, more precious than a black pearl, it is a sure sign that they are on the path of alienation, isolation… devastation.
The line has emptied in front, grown in back, and it is finally my turn to squeeze out the large circle. I glide through the waters while Professor S. clears the hatch.
He hands me my flipper-fins, and I slip them on. When he clicks his readiness, I dive deep, kicking my legs forcefully to push me down… down… down.
The pretty turquoise deepens into a more ominous navy. The colorful reef fish disappear, the little darting rainbows replaced by their larger cousins in the greys and blacks of the Deep.
We swim so low that the Surface disappears, so low that the indigos of night surround us during our awake time. My heart pounds, the normally steady thump accelerating in excitement, anticipation, at the novelty of this experience.
Except for those who specialize in food acquisition, we rarely venture into the Deep. We all train on how to make the dive. When given our tail prosthetics, we attend a class on proper technique: the slight squeeze on the nose, the outward shove of air—so hard when gill-breathing, but necessary to tolerate the deeper pressure.
There are reasons that humans have remained so close to the Surface, and not just to look u
p and dream of what may have been… or what could be. The pressure of the Deep becomes too intense to tolerate for any more than brief periods of time. But even this pressure, as uncomfortable as it is, helps eradicate the dull disinterest of the masses.
Finally, we arrive. Hundreds of Maluhia’s residents float, huddling together in a half circle. Professor S. guides me to the front where I stare in the darkness, watching. I struggle to wait patiently when I am eager… so very eager.
“Thank you.” I turn to Professor S. “If you did not agree to accompany me, if I had to miss the Giants, I don’t know what I would have done.”
He tousles my hair, causing black strands to float in front of my face. “Chey, you have been through a lot… too much for someone your age.” He stares at me, so silent I can only hear the ever-present sound of the waters. “I wish we had kept more of the old traditions.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the A.W.,” —he sounds as though he is front of his class— “our ancestors did not allow children to go without families. If parents were unable to fulfill their role, others would step in to care for the children and provide substitute families.”
I stare at Professor S. What is he saying?
He breathes out slowly, bubbles rising from his gills. “I wish we still allowed this custom. I know that no one can take your father’s place, but I would have liked to… not leave you all alone.”
He thinks of me as a daughter? I blink back tears. It has been so long since I have heard someone say they care for me, aside for Haku. Despite my fondness of the languages, I cannot think of a response to say or click. I simply nod.
The crowd separates as the Authority approaches, his violet Skin vibrant even in these dark waters. Dr. Cloud and the six other members of the Committee follow him to the prime viewing spot in front. The crowd quiets, clicks and whistles ceasing in the Authority’s presence.
Through the dim waters, I see the whales approaching. Not the immense bodies of the Giants, but the more compact forms of the Humpbacks, twelve in all.