Cerulean (One Thousand Blues) (3 page)

They have never caught me leaving Maluhia, however.

I sit dutifully on the hard plastic of the chair and wait. A long wait is always part of an official reprimand; having a period of time to think about the infraction, to contemplate what punishment the Authority will think up, and to worry about the long-term consequences. The waiting is terrible to experience. Infractions are few within our sector.

To calm myself, I focus on taking long, deep breaths of stale air. I dislike lung breathing. Breathing through one’s gills is so automatic, and oxygen is abundant within the always-fresh ocean waters. In the oxygen-fed pods, the air is saturated with the scents of others—sweat, body odor, stinky breath—and taking in this recycled oxygen requires more effort.

How could they have discovered about Jesse? I was so careful when leaving. If another person watched Jesse swim to the Surface, how could he or she
not
have approached me to discuss that strange impossibility?

When my eyes blink with exhaustion and my head feels too heavy to keep upright, the door opens. The Authority enters. I quickly straighten. He sits down at the yellowing plastic desk, leans forward, and stares into my eyes. “Chey, I am sorry to see that we must meet again.”

What do they know? I need to be careful.

I bite my lip and nod, thinking for a second. “I have been focusing on my studies.”

“Yes, the professor has mentioned you are one of the most promising students he has worked with. He reports you have a natural affinity for the languages.”

“I am becoming proficient in Humpback-song and the Song of the Giants. I also know a smidge of Fin and Orca. I really am trying.” I look at him with my most sincere gaze. I
am
trying—trying to ward off the blues, fighting to not succumb to the sadness, and putting all of my energy into the languages.

“As the Authority for our sector and the head of the Committee, I hereby administer an official reprimand.”

My body tightens. How bad will it be?

What is my punishment?

“You were spotted leaving the boundary waters this morning and not returning until late afternoon. Your prosthetic was discovered hidden near one of the hatches, so it may not be the first time that you have left the pod complex without permission. Your partner was not informed of your departure, placing you in grave danger in the open seas.” He flicks his purple-Skinned finger with each infraction he reads.

They interviewed Haku? Oh, she must be so angry with me. Guilt fills me.

The Authority stands. “To be honest, I was not sure what punishment to administer. You have so much promise. A part of me holds out hope that you will be able to overcome your obstacles, but for now, you continue to put Maluhia in jeopardy.”

“I will try—”

“No!” His sharp headshake causes his snowy-white hair to quiver. “I have heard your promises before. The Committee will not allow such intentional non-compliance.”

“But—” I lean forward, show my most contrite expression. Please, notice my remorse.

“After much contemplation, I have decided upon the following: Your tail has been confiscated, to reduce the temptation to swim into the open seas; daily appointments with Dr. Cloud have been scheduled, indefinitely; and you are on pod arrest.”

I sink back into my seat, shocked. It is not the worst punishment; they are not taking me away… yet. But to lose my tail and my freedom? To have to endure the misery of Dr. Cloud, day after day? And to be mandated to remain within the dismal children’s residence? How can I possibly fight the despair now?

For the first time, I fear that I will not survive, that I will fall just as the others have fallen.

I squeeze my eyes shut to trap the tears that threaten. The reality of all that I will miss sets in—Jesse, Haku, the Giants. I fight to contain the sobs, swallowing down large gulps of the stinky air.

“But the Giants are coming,” I whisper. “I need to hear them for my studies. There is no other way to truly master their Song.”

The Authority had already begun to shake his head, but at my final words, he pauses, looks down at his desk, and closes his eyes for several minutes. Finally, he says, “As this is related to your specialty, I will suggest the Committee permits it. But you must be escorted there and back by your professor.”

I mouth my thanks.

“And Chey, we will attend. The Committee will be watching.”

As I wait to be excused, a man climbs out of the pool entrance, politely shaking drops of water off his gray Skin before stepping onto the dry floor. Without a glance at me, he marches over to the Authority’s desk and shakes a small amber bottle. “Empty. Again. I need this cycle’s—”

“Doctor, watch yourself!” the Authority snaps.

The man turns my way, and my stomach rolls. Dr. Cloud.

The Authority stands. “Chey will have the pleasure of joining you for daily sessions. She has been placed on pod arrest.”

Dr. Cloud stares at me as I shrink back in my seat. “Excellent. I will make the very most of our… time together.”

“Return to the children’s residence.” The Authority summons one of the Watchers. “Doctor, if you would please wait. We have a matter to discuss.”

I follow the Watcher into the entrance pool, down through the doorway, and back into Maluhia’s waters. As he escorts me to my capsule, I fend off waves of despondency. I focus solely on the Giants, who will be here in six sleeps’ time. Surely I can make it until then.

4

After only one sleep, the monotony of pod arrest erodes my strength, rubbing away the exhilaration of meeting Jesse and grinding down the excitement of the Giants’ visit. I lie on the couch, alone, while life in Maluhia continues without me.

Professor S. swims into the common room. Why is he here? He has never visited the children’s residence before. He pulls me up and guides me to a small table. “There has been plenty of time to relax. We must get to work,” he clicks.

“Work?”

“I have just returned from meeting with the Committee. I argued that your specialty is too valuable to neglect during your pod arrest.”

“And?” A small bubble of hope builds.

“They have agreed that private tutoring sessions would benefit our sector. I shall come for an hour each afternoon, after my other classes conclude.”

“You would do that…” I cannot bring myself to say the last two words that linger in my mind: for me?

“A small sacrifice, given your talent.” The professor looks around the room. “There are some limitations in this space.”

The water-filled rooms make practicing languages more challenging, for we must communicate in the clicks and whistles of Dolphin-speak.

“To solve that problem, I thought we might focus on history for the next few weeks.” He glances around the room again. “Does your floor typically remain empty at this time?”

“Always. My floormates do not return until after dinner, and the residence mother will be tending to the pre-flippers.”

“Excellent. I wouldn’t want… your concentration interrupted during our lesson.” Professor S. leans back. “We have covered life in above-water times, but should explore more about early history during the B.W.”

All in Maluhia learn of the transition to the seas, the wisdom of our forefathers. “I have been instructed about the transition and the Disaster.”

“I want to address a slightly different topic.” The professor moves closer to me. “Early government.”

I listen carefully. It is more challenging to decipher the nuances within Dolphin-speak.

“Our forefathers wanted to replicate the popular government model of their time: an elected body to represent the people, with an overall leader, also selected by the people,” Professor S. clicks softly.

“But we do not have elected positions—”

“Any longer. They existed in the early years, but two factions formed: those whose goals centered on returning to the Surface and those focused on maintaining life in the waters.”

“The Surface?” Others dreamed of seeing Land, just as I do?

“They were merely misguided dreams.” The professor glances around the room once more. “Chey, your specialty carries great weight. I must teach you of our history, so you hold the knowledge, but this particular information cannot be repeated.”

Professor S. has never asked me to hide information before. Does the Authority have any idea of what our tutoring sessions consist of?

He does not, I decide. And I will not be the one to tell him. “I understand.”

“When the Oceaners gained the majority in the Committee, they passed a resolution which discontinued the elections. They nominated the leader themselves.”

“Why did the people allow it?” But the answer comes to me: when the apathy sets in, people stop caring. They lose their fight.

We sit in silence for a moment, until another question occurs to me. “But the Authority chooses his Committee. He hand selects who will serve with him.”

“As with many positions of power, influence and control grew over time.” Professor S. leans back again. “Over the course of history, many governments started with good intentions; not all ended that way, though.”

“What are you saying, Professor?”

He pauses, remains silent for a long time. “This is merely a history lesson—another part of your training. A history lesson for your ears only.”

Professor S. takes a risk in sharing this information with me. Maybe I should take a small risk with him. “There is one area of the languages that I was hoping to work on. I do not feel… competent in this area.”

“Why, you are the most capable student I have worked with. The Song of the Giants is complex, even for me—”

“No, not that,” I click before I lose my courage. “Could we practice the lost art of… writing?”

The professor’s eyes widen. “I have shared the basics. You know the twenty-six sounds.”

How can I convey my need for this knowledge without making Professor S. suspicious? “You know how I collect languages.” I quickly name the languages I have shown proficiency for, then the ones I continue to practice. “Writing seems as challenging as the Song of the Giants.”

“I suppose keeping your mind focused is beneficial,” he clicks. “That has been shown to help to…” He trails off, but I know what he was about to say:
help to keep the sadness away.

Professor S. peers around the room. “Allow me some time to think of how to proceed. And remember, these lessons should be considered… private.”

His visit has broken the drudgery of my pod arrest. My inner voice whispers,
I will learn the art of writing.

*

Professor S. returns the next afternoon. “Come along, Chey.”

“We are going somewhere?” How has the professor gotten permission for me to leave the children’s residence?

“Only to dinner.” He leads me down the steps, then nods to the residence mother, who must have already been informed of his directives. She watches as the professor slides open the hatch to Maluhia’s waterways.

Meals must be eaten in the dining pod. The community gathers, three times daily, to eat.

This is not one of the delegated times, however. “Why are we going so early? Dinner is not served yet.”

“I have arranged for us to eat early.” Professor S. ignores my other questions, and the short swim to the dining pod proceeds in silence.

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.

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.