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THE ANONYMOUS PATIENT awoke in slow stages. He felt groggy, and his thoughts were sluggish. He moved to wipe a hand over his face, his motion instinctive.
Annoyance flared when he was unable to complete the gesture. His arm—no, both of his arms—were restrained somehow. His pulse quickened and he forced his eyes open, squinting at the blurry haze of light above his head.
He lay on a bed. Or a table, he decided, as the unyielding surface refused to adapt to his body weight. His eyes . . . he struggled to focus.
He couldn’t move—hands and feet alike held in place by bonds he couldn’t see. Annoyance gave way to fear, and his heart began to pound.
He heard voices speaking around him, but they were muffled, indistinct. It was as though he was underwater, the sounds conducted imperfectly through a liquid medium.
He fought against the dizziness, struggling to regain his mental equilibrium. His eyesight was beginning to clear, bit by bit, as was his hearing. Where am I? Is this a hospital? Why can’t I move?
His narrow victory over blind panic was short-lived. A new and terrifying sensation coursed through his body, as if hundreds of burning insects crawled with military precision under his skin.
He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped.
The crawling sensation accelerated through his torso, and then abruptly ceased. A refreshing coolness flooded from his shoulders down to his feet, and he gasped in relief. The lights above his head began to resolve into clearer focus. A circle of lamps, harsh and revealing. I was right. I’m in a hospital.
Panic erupted a second time at the sudden clamor in his head. It seemed to come from within him, a jumbled cacophony of discordant notes. It was like hearing voices without knowing the language, interrupted by odd clicks which sounded mechanical.
Bile surged in his throat, and he swallowed several times in quick succession. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he willed his rebellious stomach to settle.
His hearing was improving. He understood the sharp, exasperated outburst just to his left. In English. “This one’s defective. The Givers—he can’t hear them.”
The voice was dour, the words clear but incomprehensible. What—who are the Givers?
The speaker leaned over him, an angry scowl twisting her features. She wore a physician’s attire, but her surgical mask was pulled below her chin, revealing her down-turned lips as she examined him. She was not pleased.
A second figure appeared to his right, staring down at him. He was also outfitted for the operating theater, but his surgical mask, with its accompanying cap, hid most of his features from view. He seemed less volatile than the first speaker.
“Not another one.” His voice was flat and dismissive, his eyes cold and distant.
The woman glared at him, as if he were accusing her of incompetence. “I just perform the procedure. I didn’t invent the technology. If the manufacturers made an error, take it up with them.”
“Perhaps you’d like to tell them yourself,” the man replied, his voice calm as he nodded his head, indicating the foot of the operating table.
All eyes—including the table’s restrained subject—shifted in the direction indicated. The woman stiffened and fell silent, averting her gaze.
Alien creatures stood in solemn silence, observing. They wore no surgical gear, and the patient on the operating table felt his stomach heave without warning. His reflexes failed, and the female doctor dodged away, her voice raised in disgusted protest as he vomited over the side of the gurney.
The patient stared into the circle of lights, his eyes pleading, as if the glare could purge the sight of the creatures.
He heard another recurrence of the alien voices—poking, prodding, crawling like mechanical spiders over his brain. He could make no sense of anything he heard, and he collapsed in limp relief when the noise and sensations were cut off.
“There’s no point.” A new voice, detached and clinical. A young male, dressed in a white lab coat, consulted a hand-held device with an expert’s eye. “His mind appears to be incapable of accepting the programming. Everything else seems to be in working order, but he can’t hear the Givers.”
The creatures pivoted in perfect unison, departing in a vertigo-inducing swirl of motion. No one spoke until after an unmistakable click of a closing door was heard.
The young technician continued to study the device in his hand, frowning at what he saw.
“Maybe it was a mistake to try this on a Citizen.” He hesitated, as if expecting a rebuke. “He can’t be controlled.”
“Then he’s useless.” The woman turned away, removing her surgical gloves with short, angry motions.
“Not necessarily,” the man to his right said, his features still hidden behind the surgical mask. “Everything else works, correct, Ethan?”
His question was directed to the young technician, who nodded twice. Yes.
The man stared at the cowering patient, ignoring the sour odor of vomit. “Take him to a public place, the more crowded the better.”
He spoke casually, with the confidence of someone well-acquainted with giving orders. “Another protest, if possible. Plant him in the crowd, and push the button.”
“As you wish, Councilor,” Ethan replied.