Anomaly (4 page)

I walked through the kitchen to the back. I knew this way from my rotations in cooking duty. There was a chute that led to a trash bin outside. I remember thinking,
I
could
fit
into
that
chute
.

And I do.

The slide out was dirty and slick. The thought struck me, halfway down, that I could not enter the way I exited. That I would smell like potato and banana peels. But the thrill of escape was greater than any fear I had. Surely I could crawl back in up the chute. Like a trombone sliding back up the scale.

And then I was out.

I landed on the hard ground and looked around. Lights filled the space to the east of my pod, between the greenhouse and our pod’s back wall. I heard voices. People were speaking quickly, some at the same time as others. That never happened. The voices did not sound peaceful.

And then I saw the Scientist on the ground. One of The Ten.

“Tell no one what you see.”

Who is that younger Scientist? Something about the way he nods his head is so familiar.

Then he turns to the older Scientist, and my heart beats faster. Berk.

His profile has changed. The fat in his cheeks is gone, replaced by a squarer jaw. His lips are full and his hair, still a light brown, is a little longer and curls at the ends. The Scientists must be more lenient with their hair rules than the Monitors are.

“His heart . . .” Berk’s voice has changed too. It is so deep. Deeper than the voices of the boys in my pod. The sound of it does something strange to my stomach.

“Try this.” That is one of The Ten too.

I recognize him and the one on the ground from my history books. I have seen videos of them talking, but those were obviously ancient. This man has white hair and his face looks like my pillow after a difficult night’s sleep. The one on the ground looks just as bad. I had no idea age did those things to the skin, to the hair. The Monitors are right to keep this from us.

Berk takes a syringe from the older Scientist. That man’s hands are shaking. Another effect of age? Berk’s strong fingers tap the glass, then point the needle directly into the prone man’s chest.

I cover my mouth to keep from crying out. What is he doing?

Nothing.

“Dr. Grenz, I think he is gone.” Berk has a sad look in his eyes. I know that look. It is what I felt when Asta was taken away, when Berk left our pod.

The Scientist Berk called Dr. Grenz straightens himself. The effort is obviously difficult. “You are right. I did not expect . . .”

“What should I do?” Berk’s voice sounds strained.

“This was supposed to be an educational experience for you.” Dr. Grenz seems to be looking into the distance, at something only he can see. “For the pod. An opportunity to introduce you
as a Scientist, to replace their memory of you as their peer with this fact.”

“We can come again.” Berk stands and faces Dr. Grenz.

“What if the pod were out here when this happened?” The doctor shakes his head. “It would have been disastrous.”

I move farther into the shadows. I cannot be seen, but I do not want to take any chances. I still do not understand what is happening, though.

“We must perform an autopsy.” Dr. Grenz’s voice is stronger now. Clinical. “Dr. Spires was in good health according to all our data. Obviously something is flawed in our tests. We need to know what happened and why so it does not happen again. We cannot risk any of the citizens being exposed to death. It is too dangerous.”

Death.

The word barrels into me. My throat tightens. I am looking at a dead body. I know it is a natural part of life, that it occurs. I have been taught that. But to see it happen. This must be the death of natural causes that I studied. But this is not a lesson on my learning pad. It is real. It is horrible. That man had been walking around just minutes before, his heart beating, mind making plans, solving problems. And now . . . his heart has stopped. Berk said he is gone. But gone where? His body is there on the ground. But it looks empty. Frightening.

Once again, I find myself grateful for the protection the Monitors supply. Will this image ever be erased from my mind? I look at the body—not the man, the Scientist. The body. Its cheeks hang down, its mouth is slack, slightly open. The arms are at odd angles, obviously lying where they were left when Berk began to work on him.

Berk lays one arm on the dead man’s chest. Then the other.

“I will get transport.” Berk walks on a path that will lead directly to me. I panic. Where do I go? If I move, he will see me. If I don’t move, he will see me.

I move.

Slowly. One leg sliding out, the other sliding next to it. Again. Only twenty more of these and I will be back by my pod.

“Thalli?” Berk is in front of me. Why was I watching my feet instead of looking out for him?

His green eyes stop me. They have little specks of gold swimming in them. A lock of hair has fallen in the space between his eyebrows and I can see the little boy he once was.

“Thalli, what are you doing here? Do you have any idea . . . ?” He takes a breath. “How long have you been watching?”

I cannot take my eyes off Berk’s eyes. Even though I feel guilty. My punishment is, no doubt, going to be incredibly severe. I might as well enjoy every minute of whatever time I have left. “Long enough to know Dr. Spires is dead and Dr. Grenz is old and you are very important.”

Berk closes his eyes. Then he places his hand on my elbow and walks me away from where the light can find us. This feels very different from when the Monitor touched my elbow. This feels wonderful, like his fingers contain heat that drips into my bloodstream, making my arm tingle, my heart race. When he removes his hand, my arm feels like ice.

“How did you get out?” His eyes widen and he looks around. No one is nearby.

I consider telling him that I came here accidentally, that I was walking in my sleep or made a wrong turn on the way to the lavatory. But I cannot tell him that. Not Berk. So I tell him
exactly what happened, starting with my being sent to isolation and ending with my seeing Dr. Spires dead.

Berk sighs. He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. He is thinking about something, but I cannot tell what it is. I know he is not upset. It is something else. “I always thought you were—”

“Malformed?” I finish his thought for him.

Berk laughs—an odd sound in these circumstances, with a cooling corpse just a few yards away. “No, not malformed.”

My eyebrows rise. Why is he trying to spare my feelings? I know there is something wrong with me.

“I don’t have time to explain.” Berk looks to the pod and pulls out a card. “Follow me.”

He steps gently toward the side of my building, slides the card in an opening, and a door clicks open. We are in the storage chamber. “There are clean clothes in there. Change into them and try to find something to wash yourself with. You smell like . . .”

“Garbage?” I spare him the effort of finding a polite word to finish that thought.

Berk shakes his head. We are children again, with me getting into trouble and Berk laughing at me—while at the same time urging me on.

I miss that time. Because, in reality, we are not children, and this is not funny, and I will likely never see Berk again.

This makes me sad. I sigh and Berk seems to know what I am thinking. He pulls me to him and wraps his arms around me. His breath tickles my ear and my knees feel like they are going to buckle. We stand there for several seconds, not speaking, just holding each other. I wonder if he enjoys this as much as I do.

Berk pulls away and my eyes water. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. “Thanks.” I manage to slip that one word past the huge lump in my throat and then I go. Back to my pod. Back to the darkness. Away from Berk, forever.

Again.

CHAPTER FIVE

A
nd why were you placed in isolation?” The Monitor asks the required question the moment she opens the door.

“I was talking in line.” I give the required answer, the one the behavior-modification module drilled into my brain. I allow my shoulders to slump. I hope I look contrite. I hope she cannot see how my mind is racing from the events I saw last night.

“Very good.” The Monitor nods and steps aside as I walk back toward my cube. Rhen has started on her lesson for the day. Of course.

“Calculus,” Rhen says, her eyes never leaving her learning pad.

I groan. I’d rather return to the isolation chamber.

“We have a special meeting at ten.” Rhen makes the slight noise from her nose like she made before. Her gaze darts toward the door, her hand touches her upper lip. The yellowish substance is back.

“A meeting?” I will not allow her to talk about this. She is fine. The image of the dead Scientist’s body flashes in my mind. That will not happen to Rhen. She is not old. She is not malformed.

“Perhaps to discuss the canceled meeting.” Rhen leans closer toward her learning pad, and I know I have lost her to vectors and imaginary numbers.

I sit on my sleeping platform. The Monitors have already been in. How they can make the cover lie so smooth I don’t know. The corners are folded perfectly, the pillow is in the exact center, no wrinkles. I push the pillow a little to the right, turn it slightly. Imperfection is so much more satisfying. Then, reluctantly, I move to my workstation.

Sitting there, I rush through the calculus lesson. As a Musician, I am not expected to master this. Math with real numbers is helpful—it improves my understanding of music theory. All calculus does is help me write music communicating my hatred of imaginary numbers. I get enough answers correct to be able to close the program and open the program that really interests me—my music.

I want to write what happened last night. I know I cannot use words. But I can use notes. I wish I were allowed to write a full orchestration. A big bass drum to represent the moment the Scientist fell. Cymbals crashing as Berk tried to revive him. In the silence that follows, an oboe plays sad and slow.
My escape would have to be played by a violin. Staccato notes. Berk would be a cello, confident and lyrical. Together, the duet would be heartbreakingly beautiful.

I sigh. I can only write for my violin. Although I have learned to play each instrument in the music chamber, no one else has. Not in this pod. And when I once asked if the Musicians from the other pods could join me, a combined performance, the Monitor said, “That is a waste of time.”

“Rhen.” Even though I whisper, my friend looks up in shock. “Do you think, before the war, people played instruments together?”

Rhen’s eyebrows come together, looking like a quarter rest lying on its side. “I don’t understand the question.”

“I was just thinking about what life was like before the war, and I wondered—”

“Life before the war was terrible. Chaotic.” Rhen repeats the phrases we have been taught all our lives. “Why would you think about that? They were a primitive people.”

I sigh. As much as I care for Rhen, I know we are different. She doesn’t question anything. She doesn’t imagine anything beyond the facts on the learning pad. She is perfect.

I do not doubt the Scientists desire to protect us, and that they want to keep us from returning to the type of people who existed before the Nuclear War. But I sometimes wonder if they took away too much. If there is more. We are, after all, made from those people. We are not a new species. Their DNA runs through us, makes us who we are. They cannot have all been terrible. Maybe, like down here, only some were anomalies.

I wonder sometimes if emotions and curiosity might not
be so terrible. I don’t feel terrible, and I have both in me. Often. But maybe it is natural to think the best of ourselves. History teaches us that those who made the bombs that destroyed the earth were doing what they thought was right. Maybe I am so malformed that I lack the ability to understand how detrimental my malformation is.

My thoughts are interrupted by a beeping noise from the speakers. The sign that an important, unscheduled announcement is to be made. I hear silence as my pod mates stop their work and the Monitors stop their rounds.

“Please direct your attention to the wall screens for a special announcement.” The Announcer looks somber. His eyes are directed at a point past the camera. He nods, then looks into the camera, his eyes seeming to drill into ours.

“Members of the State, we are gathered today to honor one of our founding members, Dr. Leonard Spires.”

The screen changes from the Announcer’s face to a young Dr. Spires, sitting behind a desk in the Scientists’ laboratory.

“Dr. Spires is responsible for our oxygen system, for the creation of greenhouses, and, along with Dr. Williams, for the implementation of the solar panels.”

With each line, the camera switches to what is discussed. They will discuss all his great accomplishments and then they will
announce
his
death
. How will everyone react? Will they show his body? I don’t think I can stand to look at it again.

Suddenly, the camera switches to an older Dr. Spires. Not as old as the body I saw yesterday—fewer wrinkles, less white hair—but old nonetheless.

“My children.” Dr. Spires smiles into the camera. “As you
know, life has a beginning and an end. This is natural, and it is right. I have fulfilled my purposes in this life. I have completed the assignments I have been given. I have prepared the next generations to take over those assignments so the State will continue to function and flourish. I am no longer necessary, and what is unnecessary must be set aside to make room for what is necessary. This is natural, and it is right.”