Noology (4 page)

The foliage begins to thin out and we
step into the open glade ringing the serene lakeshore. Tate paces along the
shore, eventually planting himself on a hollow tree trunk lying beside the
water as it gently pulsates. I position myself on the large limb next to him
and struggle to compose myself as I heave with every sharp intake of breath.

After a few silent minutes, Tate turns to
face me and I read trepidation in his furrowed brow.

“I have something to show you.” He pulls
a small drawstring pouch from his pocket, and carefully removes two small ocher
capsules.

Immediately my mind surges back to our
conversation from the other day, and I yelp.

“You promised!
What is this? Tate, you can’t…”

He grabs my shoulders firmly and shakes
me slightly.

“Calm down. It’s not cyanide, or any
harmful poison for that matter.”

I breathe a small sigh of relief, but am
still on my guard. If the foreign tablets are not part of some dreadful suicide
scheme, what are they?

“They’re widow’s web. I just got them
yesterday,” Tate informs me.

I have heard rumors, but never seen the
drug. Widow’s web is the street name for caffenitrate, a derivative of caffeine
composed of highly potent distillations of the compound. Users refer to using
the narcotic as “spinning”, and the nickname alludes to the many women left
husbandless because of addiction and overdose. It supposedly provides the
consumer with limitless energy and an ability to operate without sleep for days
on end; however, many are lulled into a false sense of endurance and forget to
eat thereby collapsing after a few days of starvation.

Tate looks up from his palm, presumably
to gauge my reaction to this news. Hesitation and eagerness fight for supremacy
in his jumbled expression. He begins to speak, but stops himself before a word
escapes his taut lips. I attempt to encourage his speech by pasting a welcoming
smile on my stunned face, but inside I am suppressing an urge to cringe in fear
from the tiny pills.

“Avelyn, will you take them with me? I
haven’t ever tried anything and I’m frightened to spin alone.”

The vulnerable look on his face as he waits
in suspense for my reply breaks my heart.

“How did you get them?” I respond in an
effort to prolong the conversation long enough for me to craft my answer to his
request. Stimulants are hard to come by, especially medical-grade ones that are
in high demand at schools. Tate had neither the connections nor the resources
to obtain such compounds on his own.

“I got a sponsor. A tier-one decided she
wanted to help me out,” he concedes.

Many medical students rely on sponsors
while they are completing their programs. Typically, a wealthy patron will
sponsor a student as an investment in his or her future endeavors. Most
sponsorship agreements revolve around royalties paid to the provider after the
student has begun practicing medicine. A certain percentage of all wages will
be sent to the sponsor either indefinitely or until the debt is repaid. In
exchange, the patron will provide the performance-enhancing pharmaceuticals necessary
to outcompete peers and secure a prestigious medical title. Just another way
that the rich raise more capital for themselves on the backs of the
hard-working lower classes.
  

Some sponsors choose to back
intellectually inferior students destined to become tier three doctors or even
food producers, but this arrangement is entirely different. These patrons are
primarily slimy pharmaceutical dealers controlling the black market trade in
unlicensed narcotics. They offer up drugs to enhance performance with an empty
promise that the supplements will enable poor students to become Ascenders.
Instead, these struggling individuals become addicted to the provisioned
pharmaceuticals and are forced to trade all of their measly earnings for their
next ration. Many are even forced to prostitute their services in exchange for
a handful of pills, thus the dealers receive complementary medical procedures
that allow them to operate beneath the regulations of the state that would
otherwise deny medical treatment to these corrupt criminals. Similarly, these
bottom-feeders get fresh produce from addicted farmers thus circumventing the
unbalanced distribution based on the social hierarchy.

“How much did she ask?”

“Twenty percent until I repay a 50,000
dollar debt.”

My mental calculations inform me that it
will take Tate about twenty years to accommodate this sum as a tier two doctor.

“That’s a lot, Tate.”

“Yeah, but it could have been worse. And
with my SMART’s coming up, I figured I needed to.” A heavy silence falls
between us, and each of us waits anxiously for the other to chime in. I know I
must be the one to shatter the tension.

“All right,” I
mumble”

“You’ll spin with me?” A palpable relief
courses through Tate’s body, and despite my reservations I know I must
accompany my companion into this new frontier. I nod grimly, but with certainty.

“Thank you,” Tate murmurs as he leans
forward and softly presses his lips to my forehead. A warmth radiates through
me from this point of contact all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. I
hold out my pale palm, so childlike in comparison to Tate’s broad hand, as he
deliberately places a bright orange capsule on it and tenderly folds back my
fingers to secure it.

“On the count of three,” he nervously
commands. “One… two… three.”

I raise my hand to my mouth and let its
contents slide down the long track of my throat, feeling it settle in my gut.

“See you on the other side,” Tate quips
with a quick wink as we both prepare for the drug to set in.
 

My entire body is humming. My heart has
become a frantic bird, fluttering with the swift grace of flapping wings. My
breathing has accelerated to keep up with this erratic drumming. My limbs twitch,
poised to pounce into action at a moment’s notice.

I can no longer remain still, and launch
myself from my makeshift seat. Examining my internal state, I can feel every
sense heightened and quickened to an alarming pace. The staccato thrumming of my
heartbeat is a metronome: the frenzied soundtrack to my self-exploration.

Remembering my companion, I turn to face
Tate and am absorbed in his own deliberate self-evaluation. He glances up from
examining his restless fingers, and meets my eyes with pupils, wide from the
excess energy coursing through his veins. His dilated nostrils are animated by
constant short intakes of air as his system struggles to find equilibrium in
this new electrified state.

I reach out for him, and in a flurry of
movement am scooped up in his arms. He twirls me round as if I were no more
than a ragdoll. I laugh in delight, and as he places me back on firm ground, I
snatch his dangling hand.

“Race you home!” I challenge.

Before he has a chance to respond, I drop
his warm hand as if it were a writhing snake baring venomous fangs and sprint
in the direction of our dormitory. I can hear him thrashing through the woods
behind me, and soon he passes by.

He reaches the glass doors mere minutes
before I do, barricading them against me from the outside.

“Let me by!” I protest.

“For a price,” he retorts, closing his
eyes and puckering full lips. I place my hands on his chest, stretch up towards
his face, and violently push him aside in one fell swoop. Giggling maniacally I
glance around just in time to see his shocked face morph into a mischievous
grin.

Inside the familiar compound, we regain a
semblance of composure and amble along the hallway to our respective rooms. I
am beginning to adjust to the racing melody of my heart and the buzzing pouring
through my body. Regrettably, it is time to test the widow’s web in a more
productive setting. Reaching my bedroom door, I mumble a quick goodbye to Tate
before entering the familiar space.

I am too jittery to go to the study, so I
remove a textbook from my lopsided bookshelf and sit on the edge of my decrepit
bed. I take one deep breath to steady my system before immersing myself in
review.
 
  
 

The world has been blanketed by darkness
for a few hours before restlessness finally carries me beyond the confines of
my room and into the narrow hall. I have been awake for three continuous days
now because of the widow’s web. On the positive side, I have completed all of
my readings, have stayed awake in all of my lectures and labs, and have even
had an opportunity to begin studying for my SMART’s despite the fact that they
are still six months away. On the negative side, I am mentally exhausted yet
physically unable to rest. Every time I close my eyes, the relentless quivering
of my heart keeps me from sinking into the welcoming arms of dreamlands that
continue to elude me.
 

I stroll down the corridor, biding my
time until the first rays of golden light streak across the sky at dawn.
Finally, I reach the kitchen and begin opening the first cabinet door I see as
it hangs askew, attached by only one rusted hinge. Just as I am stretching
towards the small wilted celery stalks hiding in the recesses of the wooden
cupboard, the squeak of a depressed floorboard causes me to withdraw rapidly
and swivel in place. Fear is already blooming in my chest when I see the
familiar face of Tate as he crosses the threshold. Unfortunately spinning also
heightens all emotional responses, and I have been battling my overactive
fight-or-flight reflexes the past three days.

“God, you scared the hell out of me!” I
exclaim.

“Good. I like to keep you on your toes,”
he responds, smirking in amusement.

“What are you up to, other than bothering
me?”

“Can’t sleep. You?”

“Same. I haven’t slept a wink in days. I
am starting to worry I may never achieve the blissful state of REM sleep ever
again.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Tate rolls his
eyes and feigns impatience with my concerns. He beckons to me with his hand, a
conspiratorial look crossing his face. He whispers softly, “Although, I hear
after the first few days you begin to lose control over your body and your
entire face will break out in hives.”

I gasp in terror before a smile shatters
his mask of false sincerity to reveal his cheap trick. I punch his arm in mock
fury and stick my tongue out to express my displeasure.

“Let’s go to the garden,” Tate pleads in
hushed tones, kidnapping my hand in his own.

“Why would I do that after you just
embarrassed me with your immature games? I think you need to go alone.”

Tate gets down on one knee, whining,
“Avelyn, from the bottom of my shallow heart I am truly truly sorry. Would you
please grace me with your presence? If you decline, I am afraid I may not be
able to go on.”

“Get up you ham. Don’t think that just
because you bat your curly lashes, you can wrap me around your little finger. Save
your charm for someone else. But, I guess I’ll come. Just this once.”

We take off down the hall towards my
room, but retreat into a small alcove before we reach its door. Tate bursts
through a glass door labeled “Emrgecy Ex” in scrawled red lettering, faded with
age.

“After you, my lady,” he says, holding
the door open with his right forearm. I barrel past, careful to jostle him in
the process. Now I take the lead, pulling the mangled fire escape down towards
myself. I begin to climb the creaking steps while avoiding missing rungs.
Eventually, we reach the rooftop and look out over the city skyline. In the
night, all is dark and quiet except for the sterile hospital. It glows like a
beacon promising a bright future ahead. Just beyond the pharmaceutical
manufacturing plant lies the compound of houses reserved for the tier two
doctors in Certet. Somewhere in one of the miniscule cottages, my parents are
fast asleep, refueling for the next hectic workday. At the edge of the city, I
can barely make out the metallic white windmills continuously churning in the
breeze and harvesting nature’s gift of electricity.
 

I traverse the concrete rooftop to reach
the garden. Once a small greenhouse for the residents of our building, the
glass has long since shattered and blown away across the endless forest floor
below. Shrubs and wild flowers have seeded themselves and a proliferation of
magnificent forms and hues now control this space. The tangled stems and branches
form a canopy of lush greenery that optimizes a wonderland. A few splintering
wood chairs are positioned near a towering rose bush adorned with ruby blossoms
that drip fresh dewdrops.

I choose the chair closest to the
fragrant aromas and glistening petals, and slide into the battered frame. It
groans in protest, but holds up to my weight. My gaze immediately turns skyward
as I contemplate the stars and the heavens above. Immediately, I spot Orion,
the Big and Little Dippers, and even Venus in the stew of swirling celestial
points. A sigh of sheer contentment escapes me as I drink in Mother Nature’s
sweet serenity.

“It’s strange to think that so many have
taken their lives on this rooftop, plunging to the unforgiving ground below,”
Tate interjects. I had forgotten he was with me in my delirium. I had also
forgotten the haunted past of this location. Many students had crumbled under
the pressure of criticism and judgment at this dormitory, deciding the only
course of action was to leap from the cement structure and plummet six stories
to the cold earth.