31

000.140.23.15.11

Monday sweeps the silent weekend out of the way and I choose my first outfit: Balance.

Balance sounded the least lethal, and it’s time I learned to tightrope walk. The metal machine created the Balance outfit to the exact measurements of my mannequin with the single press of a button. When I asked Wilbur about sewing machines and real material he said, “Everyt’ing is software. This machine rearranges atoms to our specifications.”

“So you can print a fully-designed dress if you wanted?”

Wilbur smirked. “Printin’ a dress. What a quaint notion.”

I no longer fear being asked to thread a needle. Wilbur’s design studio doesn’t even use them. Any skill at hemming is useless when perfection can be programmed.

Wilbur leads me along a long corridor into a new room similar to a warehouse. Around the edges are glass cubicles with screens and people inside. In the center rests an enormous rectangle enclosure with cement walls and a single black door.

My mannequin stands by the door wearing Balance. It’s a thin, silver, jumpsuit clinging to every form of my copied body. The left arm disappears in the left sleeve, but the right hand is dressed in a matching silver glove. I lift the extra material on the left arm and let it drop. It’s light as a leaf.

“Do people wear these when learning to walk the tightrope?” I watch as Wilbur attaches what look like small freckle stickers to the base of my skull.

“It has not’ing to do wit that. It’s created to balance emotions. This will help soldiers t’ink more clearly during stressful or life-t’reat’ning situations.”

He gestures to the grey cement building in the center of the warehouse. “This is where interactive scenes are monitored and created. Before ye can test any outfits, I need a baseline. We only need baseline ye once. It’s the hardest part. Ye’ll go in one scene wit’out any outfit to monitor and record yer negative emotions, physical strengt’, natural reactions, and tolerance. Then ye’ll wear the Balance suit and enter another scene. Hopefully we’ll see a difference wit’ the emotions.”

We stand before the large black door until a short woman carrying a metal tube joins us.

“This is the simulologist,” Wilbur says.

She pulls a small syringe from the tube. “Here’s the reactor.” Her voice is throaty, like a man’s. She reaches for my left arm, but I curl it to my chest.

“What is that?”

She looks at Wilbur. He raises his eyebrows, so she says, “The reactor is a harmless substance that causes the simulation effects to feel real. Once the scene is over, all feeling and pain will dispel.”

“Pain?” I shoot a look at Wilbur. “What am I doing again?”

“Ye’ll go into a simulated scene that builds off yer fears and reactions. The reactor is the only way to record yer true responses to situations.”

“What sort of scene?”

“Ye can’t know.” He huffs. “It’ll affect yer response.”

I pinch my lips together and hold out my arm, wishing I could clench my invisible hand against the prick of the needle. I jump when the needle punctures my skin. Pressure churns my stomach as she pushes the unknown liquid into my veins. The simulologist’s eyes flit to my stump and stay there the entire time it takes her to inject the reactor.

I stare hard at the black door. What will I meet on the other side? The simulologist said pain. Wilbur mentioned my fears.

What are my fears?

Too many to count.

Suddenly I’m utterly convinced this is not a good idea.

The door turns a glowing red and Wilbur sends a thumbs-up to a person in one of the glass cubicles.

“She’s ready.” The simulologist puts a cap over the reactor needle.

“Go on with ye, then.” Wilbur bounces on his toes.

I stare at the door, swept back to my moment in the East when I stood before the Wall. Again, I face the unknown. Is my nervousness coming up on their data sheets already? Without knowledge, there can be no control.

You’re protecting me, right God? I remember the Bible prayer from the beginning of my travels and pray my adjusted version. Help me figure You out, do with me what You will, please give me food, keep me safe, and forgive me for whatever I’ve done wrong. I add a little mental emphasis on the keep me safe portion.

The door has no handle so I flatten my hand against the red surface. It looks hot, but it cools my sweating palm. I push. It opens without a sound.

The room is dark. The beam from the closing door illuminates a stretch of long polished floor covered with millions of holes no larger than pinpricks. With the thump of the door shutting, I stop walking. My breath echoes in black space.

What’s in here? It’s too dark to tell if anyone else is present. Will a video screen show up soon with the scene? Should I sit down? What sort of pain did they mean?

I take deep breaths. The idea of pain doesn’t concern me too much. My body has grown into a toughened, albeit emaciated, mass of resilience. I think I can handle—

A child screams.

I flinch and my heartbeat explodes. “Willow?”

Her scream continues, guttural under wetness in her throat. It rings around me. Instinctual terror prepares me for the pounding approach of wolves, coyotes, and bears.

The scream dies, coated in despair. “Where are you? Willow!”

All sound stops and a gentle white glow builds fifteen yards ahead of me. I squint, trying to locate her. The light brightens, dented by tendrils of darkness. Then I see the hearing platform from Unity Village, as weathered and threatening as always.

Nine people stand atop it in a chained line. Willow is first, then Reid, Mother, Father, Jude, and the Newton family. An Enforcer stands behind each one. Sound cuts in as if someone removed muffs from my ears.

“. . . are reported of being Radicals.” The voice is deep, like the black Enforcer who sentenced me to the wall. “Can anyone vouch for their Clocks?”

“I can!” I try to shout, but even though my mouth moves, no sound comes out. I try again. Nothing.

Panic thrums through my skin. I attempt a step forward, but the crowd below the platform is so thick and unmoving, I can’t squeeze between a single pair.

“If no one can vouch for their Numbers, then these nine Radicals are sentenced to crossing the Wall.”

“No!” I scream with my muted voice. I shove against the people in the crowd. They might as well be statues. But I must fight. I must reach my family, the Newtons, Jude, Willow . . .

I must save them. No one else can.

My pushing and fighting accomplishes nothing. When I look up again, the platform is empty and the line of my family and friends disappears into the shadowed darkness.

I sink to my knees, gasping for breath. What can I do? Run after them? Appeal to the Lead Enforcer? Find Solomon Hawke?

A loud series of clicks breaks the eerie silence. I raise my head.

A line of Enforcers face me with guns leveled at my face. Behind them is an endless crowd of people, all with blank eyes and plastered smiles. Watching me. Waiting for my death.

I don’t search their faces. Instead, I close my eyes and wait. What will it feel like when the bullets hit me? Pain. Shock, but I won’t die. I still have four and a half months left. I must stay calm. Strong. I must push through the pain for the sake of other Radicals.

Lights blind as if someone lit a thousand flames in my pupils. I take a sharp inhale and blink. I kneel on the cold floor of the vast square room. The silver walls are also speckled with billions of miniscule holes.

Memory hits me with embarrassing orientation. Simulation. Scene. Not real. How did I forget?

Though the walls are solid, I feel watched again, like an animal in a cage. The exit is to my right, the door still closed. I force myself to my feet, stride to the door, and push it open with both hands.

Wilbur Sherrod stands on the other side.

“Well, you have a morbid sense of humor!” I want nothing more than to curl up in my bed and let my emotions settle. He lifts the hair from my neck and peers around me. I jerk away from his touch and push him in the chest. “Don’t touch me.”

His floppy sneakers make him stumble a few steps. He looks at me with eyes wide with . . . is that terror? “The simulations are started by simulologists, but they progress according to yer fears. I told ye this was the hardest part.”

Does he think this excuses him? Everyone watched me. They didn’t care that I was going to die. I was just their experiment.

“May I examine yer transmitters?”

I stare at him, not even trying to understand.

He delivers a feeble wave toward my face. “The stickers ye have on yer neck.”

The simulologist woman comes around the corner next. “Are they secure?”

Wilbur looks at me, hesitant. With a huff, I pull my hair up and turn around. I try not to cringe at the scrape of his fingernails on my skin. “They were secure.”

The simulologist tilts her head with an eyebrow raised. “Well, Wilbur, it seems you have some fascinating data.” She ambles away without further explanation.

I turn to Wilbur as my heightened emotions subside. The shaking lessens. Why I am I so angry right now? How did I lose myself in such a short scene? It felt so real.

So, those are my fears. The conviction of the people I care about, helplessness, and being killed under the eyes of impassive onlookers.

“Weren’t ye afraid?” Wilbur leads me back into the hall toward his studio.

I snort. “A child’s scream, the death of everyone I love, and a firing squad? Who wouldn’t be afraid?”

We enter the studio. “But ye weren’t afraid of dyin’?”

I shrug. “Well, I don’t die for another four and a half months.”

He stops and faces me, rolling his shoulders beneath his coat. “That’s the second time ye’ve said somet’ing like that. How do ye know?”

I let out a long breath. What must his mindset be without the understanding of Clocks? “I’m from the East, remember? The other side of the Wall.”

“I t’ought ye weren’t being truthful.”

“I don’t lie. We have Clocks over there. The Clocks tell us how long we have to live.”

“How do they know?”

I rub my neck, trying to erase the residue of the simulation stickers. “Some mixture of prediction and linking with the growth of a baby. Each woman has ovachips in her body to detect conception. Then the Clock starts ticking and everyone knows how long the baby will live.” I throw up my hands. “They just know. The government sends them to us. Do you know what a government is?”

“I’ve heard of the government on yer side.”

I squint at him through my wayward bangs. “You have? How?”

“The Preacher. He’s on the United Assembly.”

The man with answers. The sooner I meet the Preacher, the better. “What’s the United Assembly?”

Wilbur shrugs and resumes his walking. “The leaders who meet from the East and West. That’s all I know.”

It’s time to start my list of questions for the Preacher. First up: What is the United Assembly? Another link between the USE and the West? How much does my government know? “Well as soon as I’m done working for you, I’m meeting with the Preacher for answers.”

Wilbur stops and faces me. His eyebrows collide in a frown and he bites a side of his bottom lip. “Ye t’ink a week of work will get ye a meeting?”

I plop my hand on my hip. “Why shouldn’t it?”

He looks at the ceiling and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Ye won’t make enough trade tickets in a week. Ye need at least t’ree.”

“Three trade tickets? What are those?”

“Not t’ree trade tickets, t’ree weeks. Trade tickets are the payment we use here. Ye don’t get any unless ye work extra for me. Right now, all yer earnings pay off the Ivanhoe Independent.”

Work extra for Wilbur. More time as a guinea pig? Another simulation? Weird suits? I never should have boarded the train. Before I can think up a comment, one of Wilbur’s makers steps out of the room of design.

“How did the suit work?”

I glare at the box in the middle of the room.

“We didn’t test it yet.” Wilbur turns his back on me. “I need to t’ink.” He walks past his makers to his private office, leaving the rest of us behind. His maker looks stunned, as if it’s the first time Wilbur hasn’t shared everything on his mind.

I back away. “I’ll just return to my accommodations,” I say in a quiet voice, wanting them to hear me, but also trying to avoid opposition.

The room Wilbur assigned me is more like a cubby. A porcelain sink with its own plumbing juts from the right wall, and a dresser with two drawers rests beside it. A door off the left wall leads to a toilet stall—like the outhouse at home, but with a flushing handle. Thankfully, it doesn’t smell.

The bed is a heavy mattress stretched on a thick window seat. My window faces away from the Marble over the sparkling city of Ivanhoe. I’m sleeping on top of the world. Last night I watched plethoric bicycles and motorcoaches transport dozens of people on the smooth rails below, wondering what Wilbur Sherrod had in store for me once the weekend ended.

I didn’t expect the simulated scene. A nightmare. Did I really have some sort of control over it?

I understand the fear of not being heard—of being voiceless and ignored, but why do I hate being watched? How can I dislike this when my biography is spread across the East with my continuing story? That doesn’t bother me, yet the box in Wilbur’s studio, the simulation, the albino atonement, the town square in Unity Village . . . all included being watched without mercy by people who don’t know me. I was alone. Trapped.

It’s the sense of helplessness that I hate—of weakness. I was helpless to save everyone on that simulated platform. No matter what I did, Reid and everyone else were condemned.

I can’t bear the idea of him dying and me living, but what if the Clock is his? What if he knows something I don’t? What would that mean for me?

“It can’t be his.” I speak to the empty room. “I can believe just as strongly that it’s mine.”

My NAB lies on the crisp white pillow where I left it this morning, hoping it would lap up some sunrays. I re-read the message Hawke sent me last night.

~Good midnight, Miss Parvin, (although it may not be midnight when you read this.) I can write only at certain times to keep my correspondence with you confidential—basically, to avoid getting us both in trouble with the Enforcer organization.

~You are in my thoughts quite . . . often. I run through idea after idea on how to help you, but none come to me. Sending Jude to you was my best attempt, but that seems to have backfired. Will you forgive me?

~I’ve spent time with your family, sharing what I can of your X-book with them. The more I get to know them, the more I wish I could have known you better . . . sooner. You are missed on this side. But we are all proud of you.

I still don’t know how to respond, but the message leaves me lighthearted, as it did the first time I read it. I like the idea of a man risking something to help me, to talk to me, and to help my family. Even if he’s out of ideas, he’s still trying to think of some.

Skelley Chase’s bubble has been still. The lack of concerned messages leaves me wondering. Does he still care about my journal entries?

Last night I went through a week’s worth of The Daily Hemisphere articles and saw small announcements of my new journal entries being posted to my X-book. Despite having the X-book, I haven’t read past the cover page.

Are people reading my story? Are they asking questions? Is anything changing with the Radicals? No one replies to The Daily Hemisphere announcements. I could be famous or invisible. I’m not sure which one I want. These past weeks have left me with robust doubt that my biography will convey what I want it to—it won’t in Skelley Chase’s hands, anyway.

Now that I’ve found the Independents, I might find new purpose away from my old life. Perhaps it’s locating the Newtons or helping Wilbur Sherrod with his suits. Maybe it’s finding out information from the Preacher to share when I go back.

Go back.

The thought sits in my mind like a sour bite of fruit. Swallow or spit it out? The East lies like a dead past life. Just the idea of traveling again wearies my soul. Returning is like stepping back into the shoes of drab life. I’ll return only to die.

So why should I return?

The question feels rebellious as I stare at Skelley Chase’s name on my NAB. He’d hunt me himself if I dared stay in the West. But that’s not reason enough to return. I don’t care about offending him. If I return, I need to bring something back. Something that will cause change.

Shalom.

I jump and look around the room. “I heard You,” I whisper, drenched with instant giddiness.

I’m starting to love when God lodges thoughts in my head. They come in my own voice, but they’re so far from my own doing that I know it’s Him. It’s such a delicious form of guidance.

As my giddiness subsides, I think on the word He implanted. Shalom—wholeness and completeness in Him. The way things were intended to be. Hawke wanted shalom in my village.

I sink down onto my window bed. I want shalom. I want things in my life to be the way they were intended to be. How were they intended to be?

A harsh knock startles me. I jump off the bed and answer the door. The short plump simulologist woman stands before me. She glances up and down the hallway before speaking in her throaty voice. “I know those people in your simulation.”

“What people?” I’m still thrown off by her presence. Did I do something wrong in the simulation?

“The two on the platform. They are my neighbors.”

My brain struggles to make sense of her words. “I’m sorry, I’m still unsure who you’re talking about.”

“The woman and child. The Newtons. I live by them.”