The Luminosity Series (Book 1): Luminosity (7 page)

“Only
five meal items per week? So, what, am I supposed to go hungry the other two
days of the week? And why don’t I qualify for my medication or medical care?” I
panicked, letting out an anxious breath.

“Listen,
these figures are divided amongst our lesser privileged citizens. And since you’re
a new civilian in this town, this puts you lower on the waiting list for
medication. Times are tough, and they’re only getting worse,” he said.

“But
how does this meet livable standards?” I huffed, shaking my head.

“Livable
standards? We’re in a time of crisis, Ms. Adams. We can’t afford to live how we
used to. We must conserve resources for the colonies, or else what we’re doing
today won’t mean a damn thing. We’re in different times now. And if you can’t
adapt to it, then you’re welcome to go scrape by in a prison cell with the
ungrateful rats who just escaped the border the other day.” He took a moment to
regain control of his temper before proceeding. “Now you either sign this paper
so you can get your I.D. card and go to work, or you can be penalized. It’s
your choice.” I swallowed hard before shooting up from my chair, my eyelids
struggling to look the man in the eye.

“But
this isn’t even close to what I received back in Grand Junction. And it isn’t
enough for anyone to survive on. Without proper medical attention, without
adequate nutrition, people won’t survive this. How are we going to make it on so
little? When people get sicker? When things get worse?”

“The
death of millions is the price society has to pay in order for the better half
of the population to survive. You can either join the dead, or fight for a
place among the survivalists. Your choice.” He gave me a disgusted stare.

I
took a deep breath before signing with a wobbly hand. As I waited for the man
to give me my copy, I clenched my teeth and balled my fist. Then, I snatched
the paper from his grip before storming out of the office.

“You
will work rotating, ten-hour shifts,” the woman said as she led me through the
hospital. I swallowed, observing the stark surroundings. “Around here, we share
tasks, so just because you served food one night, doesn’t mean you’ll be doing
that the next time. There’s a precise schedule to abide by, and much of it has
almost impossible deadlines. If we see you are not meeting the quality
requirements, you lose your duties and your benefits, which means you’re in a
world of hurt,” she said.

“But
what if you’re new?”

“We’re
on a strict budget. You only get one chance to demonstrate to the authorities
you’re worth keeping around. So unless you prefer to end up on their shit list,
I’d advise you to work hard, or at least pretend to. Their eyes are
everywhere,” she said.

“What
about the sick or disabled?” I asked in a cringe, already knowing the answer,
but curious of her response.

“Hah.
They’re lucky to even have duties. They try to give them easier tasks, but we
don’t have the time to teach and train them into the positions we require them
in. Most end up in special camps to spend their final days,” she sighed.

“But
that’s not right,” I heaved in disbelief, knowing I very well could have been
one of them.

“Life
was never fair,” she said.

“I—I
know that, but…”

“Look,
just be glad you’re here. You can’t worry about others. All you can do is
concentrate on yourself,” she said. “Besides, having a role in this society is
a privilege, and you should treat it so.”

“What
happens to everyone else?” I asked.

“Everyone
else?”

“The
ones who don’t have assigned duties… the homeless… the people who deny
themselves that… privilege?”

“Isn’t
that obvious by now, Ms. Adams?” She raised an eyebrow. “Trust me, I’ve seen it
happen a few times before. People get this wild idea they can escape the
borders thinking they’ll have a better chance at surviving on their own out
there. Who the hell are they kidding? The military always finds them, dead
somewhere. Why do you think the borders exist? Just to keep the war and
rebellion out? Hah! No. It’s saving people from themselves. That’s what,” the
woman rambled on as we passed several rooms of sick patients. She appeared to
be of middle age, in her mid to late forties, only glancing back at me once or
twice between speaking. She was serious, strict, and meticulous, the do-everything-by-the-book
type. Surely we wouldn’t agree on things. And as I lagged behind her past the
trauma unit, I cringed as I recalled my stay here the night of the accident. Much
of the hospital still looked the same, with its white walls and floors, once
reflective of the blinding fluorescent light flourishing the hallway. Only now,
shadows afflicted its once bright appeal. Every inch of this hospital brought
back memories, and suddenly I wished I had been assigned to the fields.

“But
why does it even matter if they leave? They’re going to die eventually anyway,”
I said, running to catch up to her. She spun around in a sigh.

“No
one gets out of this without paying their dues. It’s the law. If they don’t
receive assigned duties, they’re taken to a different territory where they can
be of service. The territory leaders don’t just let them die. But if they
continue to resist, they’re sentenced to the prison camps to be executed. We
try to help them come to their senses, but… some people would rather take the
easy way out than help work toward a new future. They become ambitionless,
resistant, and disobedient. And that, Ms. Adams, is why they are punished.
Regardless of resources, everyone has a role to play in this. There aren’t
enough of us to keep a civilized society functioning. The more people that
participate, the more resources are produced, and the better our chances. The
rebellion is what threatens our survival, not the territories,” she explained.
I swallowed. Even though I already understood, I still couldn’t find agreement
in it.

“But
the more people there are, the more resources are needed… the more people will suffer…”
I said in confusion.

“Which
is why we produce more than we consume. It’s why we must limit civilian
resources. The only ones who suffer are those who disobey the laws,” she said.
I winced.

“What
did you say your name was again?” I asked, idling beside her. She turned and
paused, her strawberry blonde hair aglow from the soft lighting above us.

“My
name’s Sonya. I’m the head nurse.” She reached out her hand. In a sudden dread,
I hesitated as I shook it.

Down
the hall, a group of nurses and doctors rushed to prepare a room for emergency
surgery. The words
“attempted escape”
were muttered, and that was all I
needed to hear.

“It’s
Aubrey, right?”

Distracted
by chaos and shouting, I snapped my head back and nodded to Sonya as she
tirelessly directed me in the opposite direction.

“We
perform several duties here. And we expect you to take full responsibility for
our patients. Their lives are in your hands, so we need one hundred percent
cooperation regarding safety standards. Things can go wrong all at once. That’s
why the National Guard is here if a panic, riot, or other related event should
arise. And sometimes we have to make difficult decisions. But we trust you use
good judgment when making those calls, even if it goes against your moral
obligations. Is this understood, Aubrey?” she asked.

“Yes,”
I replied, blinking fast.

“Excellent.
Now, since today is your first day, I’m putting you upstairs in the maternity
ward where it’s less chaotic,” she said as we continued toward the elevator. I
froze upon hearing her words.

“Maternity
ward? I thought there were laws against having children?” I asked.

“We
get that reaction a lot. Sometimes I’m surprised that it still exists. But
don’t worry, we don’t take in as many newborns nowadays. Not since the new laws
were passed. But you see… their laws can’t prevent children from being born,
even if they punish the mothers and fathers who bear them. As sad as it is, I
like to think the sight of their little faces reminds us how precious life
really is,” she said with a hopeful smile as she pressed the arrow button on
the wall. I let out a silent breath in disbelief of her words.

As
we ascended, I swallowed back my anger. I tried not to be obvious, but a fire
was rising in me, along with the guilt of my mother’s association. A hint of
concern lingered on her face as she glanced at me out of the corner of her
eyes. But I couldn’t return the glance.

After
taking my first step onto the fifth floor, I expected to see fake smiles and
cheerful, bright colors. Instead, the familiar bland walls and shiny floors
encompassed me as I followed Sonya to one of the nurse’s stations. Many of the
lights were off within the hospital to conserve power. The faint, purplish glow
of daylight shined through the polarized windows in each room, lighting our
way. To my left was a door labeled
“Emergency Exit - Access to Basement
Only.”
Only then did my suspicion over it cause me to wonder in what cases
it might be used for. Then, as if to snap me out of obscurity, I jumped as two
doors swung open from the far end of the floor. Through them, a team of guards
escorted a woman from her room. She was hysterical, her face beet red with fear
as her screams pierced through the walls. Her thick brown hair plastered in
sweat to the sides of her confused face. When the guards grabbed her, her weak
body trembled as she plummeted toward the middle of the hallway by their
forceful shove, still dressed in a hospital gown.

“No!
Where are you taking me? You can’t do this! That’s my baby in there! Give her
back!” she shrieked, thrashing at them with her diminishing strength. Sonya
darted toward them as two nurses appeared from another room. I stood in horror
as they injected the woman’s arm with a large blue needle. It must’ve been a
calming agent—the same calming agent they gave civilians back in Grand Junction.

As
she drifted off, her desperate expression clung to my fearful glance. I backed
up against a wall, raising a hand to my face, as if to shield me from her beaming
sight. Fighting to catch my breath, her body slowly slid to the floor, the
guards handcuffing her before lifting her into a wheelchair. Dread filled my
eyes as they passed me by. Soon after, Sonya stood before me again.

“I
didn’t mean for you to witness that on your first day, but I suppose it’s
better you know, than don’t,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Every once in a
while, we get the dosage wrong and one of them wakes up before they’re
transported.”

“Transported?”

“The
mother is sent to a facility where our territory leaders decide her punishment.
Assuming the father hasn’t already been captured from attempted escape, he’s
brought to the same facility. Those are our orders,” she said.

“What
kind of punishment?” I asked.

“They’re
disqualified from the colony selection for disobeying the law. But in most
cases, they end up in prison camps depending on the capacity. Otherwise, they’re
taken to the euthanasia facilities where they’re put away,” she explained.

“Put
away? You mean killed? But what happens to the children?” I asked, unable to
regain control of my breathing. Sonya sighed again.

“If
they’re healthy, the babies are sent to a special pediatric unit to decide if
their lives can be funded. Sadly, due to conditions and lack of resources, most
of the newborns don’t make it past a few weeks. Our supplies here are too
limited, and demand is too high. Everything available to the public is
documented. If they see we’re using more than we’re supposed to, well… our
benefits get cut to compensate. It’s a hard balancing act. Sometimes our
workers give up their benefits to help spare these poor infants. But it’s not
enough to save them all,” she said.

“But
those children are innocent. How can they be allowed to do this?” I asked with
wide eyes.

“The
parents are far from innocent. They brought them into this world illegally,
irresponsibly. The death of those children is merely a consequence of breaking
the law. Don’t you understand? Because of the war, our territories don’t have
the capacity to accommodate new life. And as much as we need them, the
birthrate must be regulated, or else we’d
all
die. Don’t forget that
we’re the fortunate ones. We still live our lives with protection, with food,
water, and shelter. But it comes with a price. We give up some of our rights to
serve the whole. It’s the only way our future will be a success,” she said.

“But…
civilians are being used as bait, as—as slaves to prepare the colonies they
might never get into. Now they’re letting future generations die? How is this
helping our future?” I was out of breath as I fought her rapid pace. She spun
around.

“It
takes a while to get desensitized to this, but you just have to. Just remember,
we have these rules for a reason. People will die, even children, and we do
everything possible to keep them alive, but sometimes there’s nothing we can
do. Sooner or later, death is something we must accept,” she said. I continued
to stare, unsatisfied with her response. She looked to me with pity, but her
soft expression hardened before I could accept it. “I’ll go get someone to show
you what you’ll be doing. Take a seat. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She left
me alone behind the empty desk.

Anger
tore through me. The world was dying, yet life for future generations was just
beginning. Being born in this time was never their fault, but they’d suffer the
consequences of being alive. We all would. Ending life would only bring about more
suffering to an already dark world, more innocent souls lost to chaos and
control. These children would never know the comfort of a warm bed, a full
tummy, or even the pleasant soothing sound of a lullaby. They were the true
victims, forced to open their eyes to darkness.

After several moments of silence, a mellow cry echoed
from a distance. I checked both ways before standing up, noticing guards
blocking the exit doors in the far corners of the hall. I took a deep breath
before wandering away from my chair, following the sounds of muffled wailing.
Then, I stopped in front of the windows as I gazed at the array of newborns.
Each were dressed in black and white to segregate their gender. Black for male,
white for female. A few were marked with assigned numbers, most with red X’s.
By now, everyone knew what an X meant. It was a label. It became an indication
that something was damaged past the point of repair. For them, it implied
death. And as I pressed my fingers up against the glass, I imagined their
need—the demand for nurturing, for love and affection—a requirement that would
never be fulfilled.