Adaline

by Denise Kawaii

  The Nanny would repeat the phrase again, as simply as before. "A good Boy does not run. Boy 1123857. What must a good Boy not do?"

  57 would lower his hand with the same delicate motion as his brother and repeat with almost identical inflection, "A good Boy does not run."

  Again and again the message would repeat from Nanny to Boy, then from Boy to Nanny until the entire Nursery had a turn to speak the phrase. The memory of those lessons filled 62 with dread, and made his shoulder twinge wearily as if it, too, remembered hours of holding his arm in the air as he waited to be called on.

  62's tablet went blank as the last problem faded. He'd been working on a series of nearly square blocks that fit together to form a bigger block with perfect corners and straight sides. As the mundane image bled into the white background his fingers walked across the screen, leaving small dots behind them like footprints on a wet floor.

  His eyes darted from left to right and it was obvious that none of the Boys surrounding him shared his curiosity for what changes were on the horizon. Each Boy held his own variation of the blank stare that permeated classrooms throughout C.A.T. The Boys were so still that were it not for the random tap and swipe of fingers upon the tablets they could almost be mistaken for Machines set on standby.

  62 turned his head and pretended to inspect his sleeve. With his face turned down, he strained his eyes to look behind him at 99. Just like the rest of the Boys in the class, 99 looked upon his test in a daze of boredom. 62 suppressed a grin as 99 came to a difficult problem. His brows came together in a knot of concentration, and the tip of his tongue poked out between his pursed lips.

  He snorted with a quick burst of laughter and all the eyes of the classroom turned on him. 62 smiled and a slight pink blush crept along his cheeks and neck. Trying his best to act like nothing happened, he tapped at the blank screen on his tablet and pretended to work on the test he had already finished. Eventually each of his brothers returned to their own work and the room resumed the quiet thrum of minds deep in thought.

  62 dragged his finger across the screen until lines formed on the tablet, and in a short while he found himself gazing down at a drawing of 99. Pleased with the sketch, he took care to capture the furrowed brow, the tip of his tongue making its escape, and the wisp of brown hair twisted between his fingers as he rested his head on his left hand. The image held for a moment before fading. A second burst of stifled laughter permeated the silence of the room, but this time it didn't come from 62.

  71, the noble teacher, was reclined in his hover chair with his tablet held at his eye-level. He peered at the tablet, then at 99's corner of the room, then back to the tablet. The Boys in the room looked at their elder in confusion. Only 62 knew what the teacher meant when he said quietly, "Just wonderful. A perfect likeness, indeed."

  71 placed his tablet back down on his desk and typed on it frantically. The Boys in the classroom looked around at each other, then each shrugged or shook his head in turn and returned to their work.

  62 looked down at his tablet and noticed words forming on the screen.

  "Your drawing has improved much since we discovered your talent. I have enjoyed watching your images form and it saddens me every time I have to erase them. You must be very careful from now on with this talent. The Community is monitoring us more strictly than before, and they may begin monitoring every stroke of the tablet while they attempt to discover the coding issue."

  The young artist tried to not let his disappointment show on his face, but when he looked back up and made eye contact with the teacher he knew that 71 understood how he was feeling. 62's mouth twisted in an attempted smile and he tapped on the letter keys on the base of the tablet in reply.

  "I understand."

  Of course, 71 knew the Boy was lying.

  CHAPTER 15

  It had been less than three class sessions since the last time 62 had drawn anything, and already the heat of anger had returned. He did his best to control it, once again taking to sitting on his hands when they weren't busy with testing and trying to lie perfectly still in his cube at night despite muscles that ached to flail wildly.

  His dreams returned to sporadic and violent episodes, and he awoke drenched in sweat and full of rage after nightmares filled with the dismantling of Machines. He was having difficulty keeping his breathing steady and his heart rate level when the Nurses came around to download his data each morning. Every time a Nurse stood outside his cube he held his breath and hoped none of them would decide that he appeared unwell.

  It took an enormous amount of concentration, but for now 62 appeared to be blending in with his brothers. He followed the directions of the Machines, stood in line and remained silent just like he was supposed to. But the effort to do nothing - to shut down the part of himself that had brought such satisfaction - was taking an unmanageable toll on the Boy.

  Rather than focusing on tests like the others, 62 spent most of the time in class doing as little as possible. He tried to keep his toes from tapping the floor. When he had his toes under control, suddenly he had to focus on keeping his legs from bouncing up and down and his bottom from fidgeting across the seat of the hover chair. If his legs obeyed him and his seat remained still, his waist began to wiggle and twist. The determination to keep his waist from moving made him forget his rolling shoulders.

  At every turn, it seemed that his body was betraying him. His elbows bent and his arms opened and closed like small doors hung on loose hinges. His left eye twitched while his right ear itched. If he was able to keep everything perfectly still and quiet, just the way it was supposed to be, his hair would tickle the back of his neck or he would suddenly get the urge to sneeze.

  62's nervous agitation was not lost on the teacher, who had tried for three nights to interrupt the Boy's vicious dreams. Had 62 been able to tear his focus away from the burning anger and destruction welling within him, he might have noticed the elder hovering just on the edge of his consciousness. If he could have redirected his gaze from the flickering eyes of the Machines as his hands tore at their wires, he would have seen the teacher waving at him and beckoning him to come enjoy the serenity of his lush haven.

  If he could cease running from imaginary Nurses and stop the drumming of his heart pounding in his ears, he could have heard the assurances of his old friend as 71 whispered, "Do not despair, young Man. All will be right soon, you shall see. The Community is changing, but we are not without the power to change with it."

  CHAPTER 16

  After seven relentless cycles of battling his own body and mind, 62 entered the classroom to find that it had changed. No longer were the desks aligned in neat little rows. They had been moved into a wide semi-circle so that the center of the floor remained empty.

  Several Boys stood along the wall, unsure of where they were supposed to sit now that the accepted order of things was altered. 62 joined them, and soon was followed by the remainder of the class.

  71 didn't arrive before the tones rang to indicate class had begun, and the Boys whispered amongst themselves when the door closed securely.

  "What do we do?"

  "Where are we supposed to sit?"

  "What happened to our places?"

  Irritated that the only thing his brothers noticed was the shuffling of desks, 62 shouted above the whispers. "Has anyone seen our teacher?"

  All of the Boys fell silent and shook their heads. 62 threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Well, let's not just stand around here like a bunch of defects. Let's sit down and wait."

  "But where do we sit?" 99 frowned as he looked around the room. The desks were void of tablets, or anything else that might have an identifier to match each Boy to his assigned seat.

  "Does it matter?" 62 walked around the desks, and considered sitting at one of the ones toward the back of the room. He'd always wished he had been assigned a seat back there.

  "Of course it matters." 1124357 chimed in.

  62 folded his arms and looked at the Boys,
huddled along one wall. "Fine then. Everyone get in numerical order. The person with the lowest number sits closest to the door, and the person with the highest number will sit near the teacher's desk."

  Immediately, each of the Boys sorted out their order, and fell into seats according to 62's plan. In a happy coincidence, 62's desk turned out to be exactly in the center along the back wall of the room and he settled down into the seat to enjoy a much welcomed moment of pleasure.

  The second the last Boy lowered himself down into his seat, the classroom door slid open and the teacher appeared. He sprung into the room and clapped his hands. "Congratulations on completing your first group task! And welcome to the next stage of your C.A.T. program."

  The Boys looked around at one another in excitement while 71 moved his chair from behind his desk and pushed it to the center of the room. He sat down and beamed at each Boy in turn, his grin widening ever so slightly when he looked at 62.

  "In the first stage of C.A.T., we test what you know, automatically, without training. You may think you know nothing, but from the time you are animated you know quite a bit! Well, most of you, anyway." With this he winked at a couple of Boys and their faces flushed with embarrassment while the rest of the class giggled. "Now that we know what you know, we get to find out who you are. Let us begin!"

  The Boy nearest the door raised his hand, an expression of confusion clouding his face.

  "Yes?" 71 gestured to the Boy with his hand aloft.

  "I am 1123856. Or 56, for short."

  71 broke into wild laughter at the introduction. He slapped his hand against his knee, and after a moment, wiped a happy tear from his eye.

  "No, no. I know your numbers already. That isn't what I mean at all. What I mean is who you are up here." 71 tapped his left temple with his corresponding index finger. "Are you a leader, or a follower? Do you make order out of chaos, or are you an unsystematic mess?"

  The teacher looked around the room again, this time with a more critical eye. "What is it that makes each of you tick? Are you going to be a Man of action, or a Man of quiet contemplation?"

  None of the Boys had any idea what the teacher was talking about, except 62. He didn't know what kind of Man he might turn out to be, but he hoped that he would become like his teacher. He enjoyed the dreams they shared, as well as the encouragement to draw. 62 especially liked the way that 71 spoke to him; with kind words and no fear of having to report every misstep to The Community.

  If he couldn't be like his teacher, 62 didn't know what kind of Man he could ever want to be.

  CHAPTER 17

  The new format of the classes was much more exciting for the Boys. The entertainment of being able to engage with one another was a welcome distraction from the monotonous structure they were used to. Although there still wasn’t much interaction between them outside of the classroom, the sound of laughter crept through the dimly lit corridors of the facility for the first time since the Boys’ arrival.

  The difference in their demeanor was immediate as each Boy crossed the threshold into the small classroom. Rigid shoulders and upright postures curved and leaned as they eased into chairs. Timid voices afraid to speak out of turn had all at once become bolder. No more did each child simply stare at a glowing tablet atop his desk, but instead gazed across the room into the cheery brown eyes of his brothers.

  62 was so distracted by the enjoyment of his classes, that his anger dulled to a quiet simmer. His dreams remained unmanageable, and he still awoke tired and lethargic when breakfast was served. But, once his eyes opened and he remembered what was ahead of him the terrors of the night were soon forgotten. The relief from the rage that plagued him left him feeling so light on his feet that he found it easy again to be a good Boy, and he was no longer overwhelmed with the fear of being disciplined by the Nurses.

  “You’ve been a very good Boy, 1124562. Welcome to cycle number 3,201. Please make your way to the Dressing Hall and prepare for class.”

  62 followed the Nurse’s directions with a smile on his lips and greeted 99 in the Dressing Hall as had become their daily ritual. He slapped his brother on the shoulder, light enough for 99 to feel the gesture but not so hard as to draw the attention of the Shower Assistants and Nurses.

  “Hello to you, too.” 99 turned and smiled before stepping into line in front of 62. “You seem better.”

  “What do you mean?” 62 asked as the line shuffled forward a step.

  “You seem a lot more,” 99 hunted for the right word. “More… like everybody else.” He nodded and looked over his shoulder at 62. “It’s nice.”

  62 laughed, “It’s nice?”

  “Yes.” 99 responded solemnly. “I don’t have to worry about you as much.”

  “Aw, you don’t worry about me.” The line moved forward and 62 took the opportunity to push his brother playfully.

  “Not any more, I don’t!” 99 crossed his arms and pretended to be offended, but then turned and grinned. “It really is good though, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it isn’t so bad being like you.” 62 rolled his eyes.

  The two Boys didn’t talk much more as they went through the motions of showering and dressing. Each Boy was preoccupied with his own thoughts. 62 had to admit that the last several cycles had gone much smoother. Getting along with everyone had been easier since he wasn’t preoccupied with drawing. He wondered, if he was able to keep fitting in with everyone, would his dreaming stop like everyone else, too?

  62 wondered what it might be like to not dream at all. Although he'd miss the few dreams he’d shared with his teacher, the need to talk to the old Man was fulfilled by their open conversations in class. No more was it just he and the teacher whispering frightening secrets, but instead he enjoyed a flow of ideas and thoughts that he could share with everyone around him.

  He nodded again to himself as he decided that he would keep doing his best to be like his brothers. They were all so focused on learning their place within Adaline that they seemed to care about little else. It didn’t seem to matter to any of them that they all had the same thoughts and feelings about the Community, or that they all seemed to raise their hand to provide the same answers to the few questions that 71 brought up in class.

  Maybe drawing and dreaming had been forcing him to be a bad Boy. Without them, maybe he could simply fall in line with his brothers. Once he'd gotten over the initial sadness of not being able to draw any more, the constant drive to find time to do it and ways to hide it had vanished. It was easier each cycle for him to ignore the surfaces around him, and easier to stop wishing that he had a way to scrawl the images in his mind on them.

  As he stepped into the shower and felt the rough brushes of the Shower Assistant against his skin, he imagined that the Machine was washing away all of his dreams. He pretended to watch them fall away, circle the drain between his feet, and disappear into the dark pipes beneath the floor. And then, so that he could be like every other Boy in his pod, he let his imagination pour out of him and flow down the gurgling drain, too.

  He left the Dressing Hall feeling like a new Boy; a good Boy. He smiled and followed his brothers down through the tunnels towards the classroom with his hands by his side and no thoughts in his mind. Just like everyone else.

  CHAPTER 18

  The display at the front of the classroom hadn’t been used since testing ended. 62 was surprised to see the wall behind the teacher’s desk glowing when he entered. He took his seat and folded his hands neatly on his desktop as he waited for class to begin.

  The stark blank wall cast a strange white illumination across the faces of the Boys. It made their soft, pale skin appear waxy and synthetic. Looking at the faces across the room from him, 62 once again found that the blank stare of his brothers resembled the Machines. He pushed the unsettling comparison aside.

  71 entered as the tones rang with his usual flourish and danced across the room with a smile. He picked up his tablet and with a wave of his hand across the screen pushed an i
mage of a large structure onto the wall.

  “Can anyone tell me what this is?” 71 looked around the room with a mischievous grin, knowing none of the Boys in the room could possibly know the answer.

  When none of the hands in the room raised in response to the question, the teacher walked across the room to where Boy 56 sat. Placing both hands on the Boy’s desk, the Man leaned forward and eyed him in mock seriousness. “56, what do you think the image on the wall might be?”

  56 looked into the teacher’s deep brown eyes, and then up to the wall where the structure shone in black and white. “It looks like… it might be… a box? Something to store parts in?”

  Several Boys nodded in agreement and mumbled to one another that they had seen Men carry boxes full of parts and tools when they came to fix malfunctioning Machines.

  “No, not a box.” 71 shook his head. He pushed away from the desk and stalked across the room. “What do you think, 24? What could that be?”

  The particularly quiet Boy gazed up at the picture and noted the small squares that looked like glass partitions dotted across the structure. “It looks like it has lots of eyes. Is it a Machine?”

  Two or three of the Boys looked at the scattered bits of glass and agreed, they did look like dozens of eyes.

  “Not a Machine.” The teacher moved over to stand in front of 98. “And what do you think, my clever little brother?”

  “Not a box, not a machine. Hmm.” 98 pressed his chin down against his balled up fist in deep thought. Suddenly his face came alight and he blurted, “It’s flat on top like you could put something on it. Is it a desk?”

  71 chuckled and shook his head, the whiskers of his beard wagging against the Boy’s desk before he stood upright again. “It's not a desk.” The teacher pointed towards 99. “What do you say it is?”