The Far Shore

by Glenn Damato

  Sharing food outside your housing unit is prohibited. Would he commit the crime anyhow? I sit down beside him and show him the exam offer. “Thirty just for trying. A hundred if I score high enough.”

  “Why haven’t you started already? I think you’d do well.”

  “What if it’s a trick?”

  “Cristina, they can take you away any time they want. Why would they need to trick you?”

  That makes sense. But how can he be sure? Is he Harmony? Something tells me not a chance.

  “Only Harmony controls the Stream,” I remind him. “Why should I do anything for them?”

  Dr. Mike leans toward me. Our heads come close enough for him to lower his voice. “Harmony controls the Stream. And they always put in their scary official logos, don’t they? And don’t they always try to persuade with a threat of punishment as well as a reward?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You see any of that here, Cristina?”

  I take another look at the test notice. It’s just text. That’s strange. But how can it not be from Harmony?

  “That’s impossible,” I whisper.

  He grunts and rubs the base of his spine. “You’d be surprised what’s possible in this world.”

  We just sit for a while, the bedlam of a few thousand nadas providing background music.

  “You think I should do it?”

  “One hundred percent!” He snaps it with pure conviction.

  Alright. So I begin.

  The problems are grueling. Numbers, shapes, grids, then complete the series. The effort drains me, and the hunger makes it hard to focus. Dr. Mike sits beside me through the whole thing.

  I just make the twenty-five minutes. I hold my breath and watch the credit increase from APAC 7.04 to 107.04.

  He smiles and claps his hands three times. “Now, go get some chow.”

  I dash off toward the vendors. An extra hundred! Probably should make it last. I come back laden with pho, fajita tacos, hot chocolate, and churros. Too many churros. Does Dr. Mike eat churros?

  But Dr. Mike is gone.

  ◆◆◆

  There are more tests.

  The next one is Visual Composite Memory. Crazy and tricky. A flood of pictures and diagrams run on for over an hour. My brain is a block of ice, but my credit ticks up another APAC 100.00.

  The third test is Verbal Composite Memory. A lot of strange words to memorize fast. Another APAC 100.00.

  Cognitive Flexibility is a wild and crazy dance. After five hours I stop at forty-seven answers, and I’m rewarded another APAC 100.

  The tests make SERCENT go away. They’re like the toughest classes at the Academy, a delicious challenge that demands my full attention. And it helps to be pretty well fed.

  I take a walk completely around the edge of the main floor, close to two kilometers total, but I can’t find Dr. Mike. He probably accomplished whatever brought him here and went home.

  A chorus of thirty children serenade with gentle hymns about Harmony and our leaders. And the promos are back. Idiota joins the chorus and sings a sweet song to Marco. It’s so stupid Dr. Mike would laugh, that’s a given fact. Is there a chance he’ll be back tomorrow?

  My third night on the floor is restful. No biting hunger, no worry about queues, or maybe my spine is going flat. I eat a breakfast of churros and chocolate. They don’t keep anyone here permanently. If I’m still here in the spring, I’ll try to build a little cabin or something out of empty juice boxes. Let them stop me.

  When I’m done eating, I’m presented with another test. Fine. What else is there to do?

  This one is called Processing Speed. Compare two diagrams side by side and decide whether they are the same or not. Two hundred problems and done.

  The next is Rapid Visual Information Processing. Five white boxes with black numbers, changing twice per second. They vanish. What was the sequence? Now six numbers—what was the sequence? The pace increases and the numbers change so fast I can barely see them. Another APAC 100.00.

  The seventh is the strangest of all: Psychological Profile. Two hundred bizarre questions.

  Indicate agree or disagree on a ten-point scale:

  My problems are mostly the fault of others.

  I am more comfortable before a decision than after.

  I am someone people can rely on.

  When I am in a difficult situation, I can usually find my way out of it.

  I can handle many things at a time.

  I think strong emotions are for weak people.

  I can usually find something to laugh about.

  If I cheated someone and didn't get caught, I would feel proud.

  Hours pass with no more tests. Final total APAC 622.85, even after a ton of food. Who is looking at my test results? It has to be Harmony. Who else could control the Stream?

  Before dinner I walk the length of SERCENT three times, but still no Dr. Mike. Stupid to look.

  Just before midnight, as I’m drifting to sleep, my Stream chimes.

  Official mandate.

  It shows the place: Shinya Yamanaka Medical Center, Pasadena, not later than 9:30 tomorrow. The promo shows Idiota getting into a car.

  A hospital. My stomach heaves.

  SERCENT. Tarado. Mental tests. Then a hospital. Everyone knows Harmony and the Autoridad do things no one can talk about. Do they have an interest in my brain?

  Why tarado? A punishment, of course. A penalty for talking to Faye, and for everything else.

  Why a hospital?

  Once again I circle the entire SERCENT floor, but there’s no Dr. Mike. One lap takes twenty minutes. I make five laps before I force myself to sit down.

  Only one way to handle this. Let them come. I’ll take another hit too, if need be. Why make it easy for them? I know what I’m going to do so I try to sleep, but I wake up countless times during the night. Sickening dreams of hospitals and dissected brains.

  At last, the rising noise level signals morning has arrived. The mandate chimes again at nine. I’m not moving. How long before they send Policía?

  Dr. Mike plops down on the floor next to me. “How goes it?”

  I jump and blurt, “Where have you been?” Incredibly stupid thing to say. But he’s here. I show him the mandate, practically rub his nose in it. “What does this mean? What were all those tests about?”

  “Yamanaka used to be called Huntington Hospital. I’m familiar with it.”

  “Why do they want me there? Some kind of experiment?”

  Dr. Mike gazes back with peaceful eyes. “As in medical experiments? On you? That won’t happen.”

  There’s a reason this viejito is always so sure. Has to be.

  “This is something horrible.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Assuming the worst. That’s unlike you, Cristina.”

  How does he know?

  “Assume the best. Have faith. Will you trust me on that?”

  Paco would probably agree with him. I touch the rosies in my pocket and nod.

  Dr. Mike stands and extends his hand. “Let’s get out of this madhouse. You’ll be late, but it won’t make much difference.”

  My mandate is a ticket out of here, this madhouse, a new word for today. The only way to exit SERCENT is through a row of gates at the far side of the building. We’re outside, and the cheery morning sun feels wonderful. But there’s one last ugliness to endure before Manchester Avenue.

  Red Block.

  Our path to the street is a curved cement walkway with flower gardens on both sides. We step over three wide puddles of chunky vomit. The reminder must be close. Among the lilies, sunflowers, lavenders, and marigolds, there’s got to be that one last reminder from the Autoridad. Proof they always have the final word.

  Nadas scurry down the path in a rush to get past a repulsive sight. No way to avoid it. My throat tightens. Dr. Mike places a firm hand on the back of my neck and directs my gaze forward.

  But it’s there, al
ong with the sickly-sweet smell. Five people in plastic chairs. They could almost be asleep, except for the bloody mess of their pulverized faces and exposed organs. A man, two women, and two niños not more than ten. Their gray skin crawls with flies. One of the ladies cradles her own head in her lap.

  My mouth fills with spit and I’m going to puke. What did these people do?

  Dr. Mike gently nudges my head and I face forward again. He squeezes my hand.

  “I have complete confidence in you, Cristina Flores. You’re going to make it.”

  I swallow. Some strength comes back.

  “One hundred percent!”

  SEVEN

  The hospital roof is curved wave-style and supported by solid glass. Like most of the other gigantic buildings constructed by Harmony, there are no straight lines.

  I step out of the car and inhale flower-scented air. The mountains around Pasadena shimmer in the morning sunshine. Is this my final view of nature’s majesty before death?

  Have faith. Will you trust me on that?

  The circular waiting room is packed with Policía, spotters, and hospital patients, but at least it has chairs. Just as I sit down, a chica with short, military-style hair strides over and snaps, “Come with me.” She spins around without waiting for a reply.

  The orderlies all wear the same pastel blue or green scrubs, a loose-fitting medical garment. This orderly is in such a rush I have to jog to keep up with her. We hurry down a long corridor, upstairs, and then across a magnificent arch of green glass into another building.

  We stop at an elevator. “Don’t tell me why I’m here,” I mutter. “Surprise me.”

  She stares straight ahead. Her eyes are as bleary as Dr. Mike’s.

  “Will I be here a long time? Can you at least tell me that?”

  “Yeah,” she says without looking at me. “A long time.”

  The elevator drops. She leads me down a bare cement corridor. There’s a musty, earthy fragrance mixed with disinfectant and fresh paint. An underground basement, definitely. At the very end is a heavy door and a stairwell leading further down.

  Wait . . . no Stream! It’s gone. No vids, no chat, no promos, absolutely nothing. I stop at the top of the stairway. This is too strange. How can there be no Stream at all? How is that possible?

  The orderly descends and gestures for me to follow.

  “What’s down there?”

  “No one’s going to hurt you. Come on, we’re pressed for time.”

  If there’s nothing to fear, why the secrecy? And why the fuck no Stream?

  A door bangs open further down the stairway. A silent mob climbs up, all in pale blue scrubs but too young to be orderlies. Teenagers, about twenty of them, mostly girls. They pull themselves up by the handrails, stumbling as if whacked-out tired. The boys have stubble on their chins.

  I pick a girl with freckled cheeks. “What’s down there?”

  She trudges past as if I don’t exist. One of the boys mutters, “Have fun.”

  “Have fun with what?”

  He doesn’t answer. The orderly folds her arms. “See? People do come back up.”

  “In pretty crappy shape, if you ask me.”

  Her eyes turn hard. “Nobody’s forcing you. The mandate is rescinded. You can go back to where you came from, right now.”

  Some choice. I follow her down the stairwell.

  At the bottom is another corridor. Muffled voices behind closed doors. Two men in white smocks walk and argue about something medical before they vanish into a side room. We enter a tiny space barely three meters wide. Freshly-painted white walls plus a laboratory cabinet, a chair, a padded bench, and a medical checker.

  The orderly pulls a yellow plastic bag and a set of blue scrubs from the cabinet. “Put your clothes and personal things in this, including your underwear, and get dressed in these. There will be a physical exam, and someone will be in to talk to you.” She closes the door.

  The scrubs are too big but at least they’re clean. There are even slippers. Wait—my rosies! I dig them out of my uniform dress and drop them into the front pocket of the scrubs. Then, one last look at the grimy old uniform, white socks, and the white clunker parade shoes. Something tells me I’ll never see them again.

  Two seconds after I’m dressed, the medical checker hums to life and directs me to stand on a pair of footprints in the center of the room. Slim silver arms whirl around me and scan my entire body. Measuring, but for what?

  The checker slides backward toward the padded table. “Please sit down facing the door.” It positions a soft collar around my upper arm and inflates it while probing my mouth, ears, chest, neck, and abdomen.

  “Lie down on your back.”

  I let the thing draw a blood sample. It puts a black plastic bar across my eyes.

  “Please relax.”

  Flashing lights. Whirls and clicks. Then a short puff of misty air into each eye. Is this an experiment? Dangerous research that could cause blindness?

  The orderly returns and snatches the bag of clothes.

  “What did it do to my eyes?” I demand. “The light looks funny, and I can’t focus.”

  “Your pupils had to be dilated in order to examine your retinas. You’ll be back to normal in a few minutes.”

  “Fine. Now tell me what this is all about.”

  “Be patient.”

  How arrogant to refuse to answer a basic question! I bang my fist against the seat pad. “Tell me now. Now! Or I’ll walk out.”

  The orderly frowns and waves five fingers in my face before she leaves.

  Five minutes? Time passes slowly without the Stream. Nothing to watch and nothing to read. I keep looking automatically. When was the last time I couldn’t Stream? Probably when I was baby. Does this mean the Autoridad cannot watch me right this moment? My words and actions are not being saved? If I get out of here and scroll back to this morning, what would I see? Some fiction? Blackness?

  A silver-haired woman in a white lab coat enters and closes the door. She’s not as old as Dr. Mike, but close. She carries a clipboard with sheets of paper and plops into the chair. Is everyone in this place exhausted?

  “Hello, Cristina. I apologize for not talking to you sooner. My name is Dr. Janet Ordin, and I’m chief physician of endocrinology here at Yamanaka.”

  She extends her right hand. I shake it up and down three times, Dr. Mike-style. Her fingers are ice cold.

  “Why am I here?”

  “You’re here as a pre-select.”

  “Select for what?”

  Dr. Ordin clutches the clipboard to her chest and rubs the edge against her chin. “I can’t tell you anything further at this point. We may end up releasing you back to SERCENT.”

  Oh, wonderful. “This is some kind of experiment?”

  “No.”

  “You want to take what’s mine, so what is it? My body? You want pieces of me? I’m healthy, so you want to cut out my kidneys, my heart, my eyes, give them to some—”

  “Organ harvesting? Absolutely not.”

  “I’m supposed to believe you?”

  She looks directly into my eyes. “You’re not the only one here. You are not the first.”

  My mouth opens, then closes. The parade ground. Marco. Not the first. She knows.

  “You’re Autoridad.”

  “No one here is associated with the Autoridad or with Harmony. We won’t hurt you. You’re here to be tested, evaluated, and possibly make a decision of your own.”

  There’s quiet between us.

  She whispers, “It’s a way out.”

  My stomach jumps. The room spins. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. Trust me on that.”

  ◆◆◆

  Dr. Ordin denied being Autoridad. Yet the mandate to the hospital was an official Harmony pull. Was it possible they somehow fooled the Stream, hijacked it for a purpose neither Harmony nor the Autoridad knows about?

  They would be caught. That would mean death.

  For now, not
my problem. I promised to do what they want me to do. And they waste no time before subjecting me to the next test.

  “Psychomotor speed evaluation,” announces the orderly who brought me down to this place. She has me lie on my back atop a foam mat and raise my legs so my thighs are straight up and my lower legs are parallel to the floor.

  “Curl up, bring your left elbow to your right side and draw your right knee in to meet it, like you’re on a bike,” the orderly instructs while guiding with her hand. “Rotate your shoulder and squeeze your abdominal muscles. Do as many as you can for five minutes. Start now!”

  Next comes a reaction time test. Just a screen and some buttons, but grueling.

  “Neurocognitive battery,” the orderly announces cheerily. She’s enjoying this. There’s coffee on her breath. I ask if I can have a cup. No. Something to eat? No. Some water? No.

  “Here are your options. You can leave or you can stay.”

  “Staying.”

  It’s a way out. I believe it, and I don’t believe it.

  The tests don’t let up. I have to recall pictures, grids, lists, and numbers. Trace diagrams backwards and forwards with one hand, then the other. More lists, then re-draw the previous diagram from memory. Trace it backwards. Trace it upside down.

  Humanitarian that she is, the orderly lets me use a toilet. I catch more glimpses of the main corridor. Different people come and go. They’re university age, fifteen to twenty, all wearing scrubs. Always more girls than boys.

  A baby-faced orderly with a constant scowl asks when I last had anything to eat or drink. Last night. Must be evening now, judging from starvation alone. He leads me to the far end of the corridor.

  I ask, “How many more tests?”

  “You’re done. Now you get to sit with some of the others. Hope you don’t mind confined spaces.”

  The others. This will be interesting.

  He unlocks a thick wooden door with a metal key. Nothing but dark, then a filthy toilet stench like body odor mingled with crap and piss. A boy and a girl stumble out into the corridor. They quiver, blink their eyes against the light, and whimper they want to get out. They need to get out.

  But I promised. So I go in.