Anomaly (6 page)
Y
ou have one hour.” The voice seems far away, coming from underneath a pile of bedcovers. I try to open my eyes, but they are too heavy. I lift just enough to see tiny slits full of bright lights. They fall shut.
A hand touches my shoulder. Its fingers feel strange—knotted and curled, like they cannot straighten.
“Hello, Thalli.” This is a new voice. I have never heard a voice like his. It sounds like a garden full of rocks. Like speaking requires effort. And yet, the voice seems kind. The touch calms me, loosens the weights on top of my eyes.
“My name is John.” His hand remains on my shoulder, but I feel him sit beside me. A chair scrapes against the floor.
I try to open my eyes again. I am able to force my eyelids up, but the lights are so bright. I can’t focus on anything. I want to bring my hand to my face, but my hand won’t move. I am strapped to this sleeping platform. I kick my legs. They are bound as well. The room comes into focus and I remember everything. The music, the tears, the Officers, the syringe.
“Where . . . ?” My throat burns with the effort to speak. My mouth is dry. So dry. I lick my lips. They feel dry, cracked. How long have I been out?
John’s hand rubs my shoulder. “You are in level H of the Scientists’ quarters.”
My mind reaches back to geography lessons. The Scientists’ quarters are located at the easternmost quadrant of the State. Like all of the State, it was built below what was called a mountain in the prewar world. I see the map in my mind. There is no level H. There are levels A–E. Going any farther down is impossible.
“No . . . level . . . H.” My throat is on fire. I have so many questions, but I will never be able to ask them all. I try to swallow. Nothing.
John touches a screen by his chair. My sleeping platform inches forward. My head spins with the movement. I close my eyes. I hear his fingers tap against the screen again, then I feel something cool against my lips.
“Just a sip,” John says as the water slips into my mouth. I want to grab the cup, gulp it down. But as the water hits my stomach, I feel sick. “Deep breath, Thalli.”
I open my eyes again. John is even older than Dr. Spires. His hair is completely white, thick. He has white hair on his cheeks and chin and upper lip. It falls down upon the front of his shirt—a shirt that has a pattern I have never seen, with
colors and buttons on the front. His eyebrows are bushy, gray and white. His nose is large and his eyes are so blue they are almost transparent. Every inch of his face is covered with wrinkles. When he smiles, there are even more. I have never seen anything so ugly.
“What are you doing to me?” The water is giving me some strength. I pull against my restraints. If I can get up, I can fight this man. I can escape.
John removes his hand from my shoulder. “I am not your captor.”
He speaks with a strange accent. Almost musical.
I look at him again. “Then who are you?”
“I am like you.”
“Malformed?”
John laughs. The sound of it hits the walls and echoes back in my ears. I have only heard laughter a few times in my life. I like the sound. “No, my dear. We are not malformed.”
“But that is why I was taken away.” I am strapped to this sleeping platform because I am an anomaly. Because I am a Code 4. I will be annihilated.
John sighs and places an ancient hand over mine, covering the restraint. “Tell me about yourself.”
No one has ever asked me that. No one ever needed to. I have grown up with the same people. I have never met anyone new. Never seen anyone that old. I look into the old man’s eyes. They are different. Kind. I have seen that look before—in Berk’s eyes. John leans back and waits. He is not rushed, not demanding. He is curious. About me.
My story comes pouring out. My music, my rebellion, even my escape. Berk. Bach. My breakdown.
Through the whole story, John listens, nods. He wipes the tears from my eyes that I cannot reach and that I cannot stop. He doesn’t speak. Not with words. But I can tell he is interested in my story. That I am important to him. I cannot imagine why.
When I am done, I am exhausted. I have no more words, no more tears. John’s hand remains on mine as I sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.
S
he is scheduled for annihilation tomorrow morning.” The deep voice wakes me, but I don’t want to open my eyes. John’s comforting hand is gone. Was it even there to begin with? Perhaps John was a hallucination, a result of whatever pharmaceuticals were pumped into my body through the syringe.
The door opens. Footsteps stop just a few feet from my sleeping platform. I keep my eyes closed. I am sure I will learn more if they believe I am still asleep.
“I have a request, sir.”
My heart begins to race. Berk.
“Yes?”
“I have never seen an anomaly of this type.” Berk seems to stutter at the word
anomaly
. Or maybe that is just my imagination as well. It is hard to know what is real and what is not anymore. “Could we postpone her annihilation so I can perform some tests?”
“What kind of tests?”
“I have a theory.” Berk’s voice is closer. I feel him standing beside me. “I have been testing on mice in the laboratory, and I think I am ready for a human subject.”
I force myself not to scream out. Berk wants to use me as a science project? I thought he was an ally. He held me. He protected me from getting caught when I escaped.
“What is the theory?” The Scientist sounds wary.
“I believe we can correct malformations.” Berk’s finger brushes mine. An accident? “It seems a waste to annihilate those who have been created and trained to aid their pods. Thalli is Pod C’s only Musician. I know the benefit of music on the brain and on productivity. What if we can correct her malformation and reintroduce her to the pod?”
“That hypothesis is certainly intriguing. But how many resources would be spent in carrying it out?”
Berk’s finger brushes mine again. Definitely not an accident. “I believe the resources spent would be fewer than what could potentially be lost as a result of her absence.”
“But if you fail, those resources are wasted.”
“And if I succeed, this can be repeated on other malformations. The need for annihilation could be drastically reduced.”
I have never heard people discuss different opinions in
this way. That is not allowed in the pods. Arguing is one of the “clues” my Monitors had to prove I was an anomaly. Yet Berk has no problem arguing his position with this Scientist. And the Scientist is not angry. He seems to be actually considering Berk’s suggestion.
The Scientist takes a full minute to respond. “I will give you two months. You begin now.”
“Yes, sir.” I can hear the smile in Berk’s voice. I close my eyes to keep the tears contained.
I listen for the Scientist to leave the room. His feet beat a steady rhythm as he walks to the door. When the door clicks shut, I open my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice sounding like a broken violin string.
Berk looks at the screen by my sleeping platform. A warning look. “Thalli, you will be undergoing a series of tests over the next few weeks.”
The screen is also a listening device. Berk is telling me not to say anything that would endanger either of us. “I understand.”
Berk’s fingers brush mine. The device cannot see. “We will begin as soon as you feel you are able.”
“I am ready now.”
Berk smiles. “I’m afraid you are still very weak.” He presses the screen to lift the platform and the room begins to spin.
“Yes.” I close my eyes to keep from getting sick. “You are right. Of course. How long have I been here?”
Berk’s eyes look sad. He traces my jaw with the tips of his fingers. “One week.”
My eyes widen. “A week?” What was in that syringe?
“You were considered a threat to yourself and others.” He glances at the screen again. “But we are going to fix that.”
I play along. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
Berk smiles at me. The room is spinning again. “Just doing my job.”
I
am in a different room. The restraints have been removed. My sleeping platform is more comfortable, the walls are slightly less white. A tray of delicious-smelling food is beside me. A couch sits against the opposite wall. My violin lies on the couch.
This might be a test: food or music. The Scientists could be watching. I do not care. I sit up, fighting the vertigo, my fingers desperate for my instrument, my mind already creating the music: mysterious, frightening, wonderful.
The violin fits under my chin, my left hand caresses the strings, my right hand holds the bow. I don’t think. I just play. Strains of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” are woven into my
song. Though I do not fully understand why, I know that song is for me.
My legs are weak. I sit on the couch. But I keep playing. I play until my arms refuse to hold the violin. Against my will, I lay it back down and return to my sleeping platform. The food is cold, but I have never had a meal that tasted better.
The reality of my situation hits me. I was unconscious for a week. I was going to be annihilated. Berk rescued me by turning me into a science project.
I finish my meal and stand, my legs feeling stronger. I am lonely. I miss Rhen. I never thought about how much we talked until now, when I have no one to talk to. She has always been there, right across the cube. Even though she is perfect, she still treated me like an equal. I am sure she knew about my abnormalities. But she never reprimanded me, never criticized. Why did I not appreciate her more? I wish I could have told her good-bye, thanked her for being my friend. Will I ever get to see her again?
I think of my other pod mates: Lute and Senic and Gen. So many memories. So much I took for granted because we have always been together and I assumed we always would be. Do they miss me? Or do they just go on, the way we all did when Berk left, when Asta left?
I think of Asta. Could she still be here? I walk to the door, look out the panel. The hall seems deserted. No Monitor guards my door. Could I walk out? Look for her? I turn the latch on the door. Of course it is locked. But maybe I could catch it the next time a Monitor comes. Escape—not the building, of course. I know the security here is much tighter than in Pod C. But at least explore. Look for Asta.
I sit back on the sofa, pick at the remainder of my meal. Memories of meals past flood my mind. Sitting at the long table in the gathering chamber with our pod, eating and discussing our lessons. Senic always sharing a riddle he devised and Lute planning a new pastry for our next special event. The silence seems to scream at me in the face of those memories. I wish I could go back to the moment I played Bach and . . . what? Not play it? No. I want to play it. Over and over. But maybe hold in my emotions while I play. Not allow myself to be overwhelmed. To continue to fool the Monitors.
I hope Berk can fix me. I will gladly sacrifice my malformed mind if I can go back to my friends and my pod. I don’t want to be alone here, visited occasionally by strange old men.
The Monitor comes and I follow her to the door, holding it slightly open so it does not lock me in. When I am sure she is gone, I peek my head through. No one is in the hall. In fact, I am not sure if there are even cameras in this hall. I step out and see that the walls and floor are different from those in my pod. Older. Everything in Pod C is white and so clean it shines. This floor is gray—I cannot tell if it used to be white and went years without being cleaned or if it was made gray. The walls, too, are strange. I touch them and they are rough, not smooth like ours. There are no panels here either. But John said we are in the lowest level. Perhaps there is nothing beyond these walls. Maybe they only made outdoor areas in the upper levels.
I look in each room. They all look the same as mine—sleeping platform with white covering, white clothing cubicle, lavatory.
Then I see a room that is different: the bedcovering is multicolored and the room looks . . . lived in.
I peer through the door panel. John is sitting in a large, worn chair, his eyes closed. I am so desperate for conversation that I go in, not even concerned that I might be waking him from much-needed sleep.
“You’re not a hallucination.” I speak softly, not wanting to frighten him.
He opens his eyes, looking wide awake. Maybe he was not sleeping after all.
“I’ve been called many names in my life. But that one is new.”
I walk closer to him, shocked again at his face. “But you are so old.”
John laughs. I am amazed at the musicality of his voice. “I am, my dear. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, this will be my ninetieth year.”
“Ninety?” I am sure I heard wrong. “But even the oldest Scientist isn’t that old.”
“Very true.”
I am confused. We have been taught the Scientists are the oldest living beings in the State. Everyone else was destroyed in the war. I sit on the end of John’s sleeping platform so I am facing him. I have so many questions.
“You were gracious enough to tell me your story.” John leans back and folds his hands in his lap. “Would you like to hear mine?”